


The Old Woman, The Otterkin, and the Eagle's Child

by Pythia (Mythichistorian)



Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythichistorian/pseuds/Pythia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name is Kirkell, wise woman of the folk and keeper of the old secrets. And she has a story to tell ..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was after the worst storm of the winter that he came to us. It had raged for three days, scouring the land with salt and bringing with it the howling of dead souls lost at sea. There had been ice in the wind and the wind had had teeth; it had torn up the twisted thorns trees along the strand and stolen another sixteen paces from the cliff edge. In the final morning, when the last of it was just fitful anger and gusts of bitter sea snow, I walked down to the beach and I found him.

I still don’t know why I went that day. I’d been safe enough from the storm weather in my stone house. There was plenty of firewood left in the stack, much of it washed up in the previous bout of bad weather. I had food too: smoked fish a plenty and slices of cheese, long strands of the dried seaweed harvested late in the year, and even a crock of flour hoarded like gold for festival days. There was nothing to drive me out into the wind and the cold and howl of the dying storm. Nevertheless I went.

And I found him.

Washed up he was, lying in a tangle of seaweed and twisted rope, sprawled out like an offering to the old gods, with the sea tugging at his heels. There were the remains of leather breeches clinging to his legs, torn and shredded so that the ragged strips were lost among the equally ragged weed that cushioned him. His feet, his torso and one arm were bare; the other was wrapped by yet more damaged leather. There was a metal cuff encircling his right wrist. Old metal, dark and heavy. Iron, not gold. Blood oozed out from the deep scratches that covered him, a pattern of scoring that matched the damage to his scant clothing. I remember staring down at him, blinking my eyes and wondering if this were truly a man or some creature of the sea, abandoned to the mercy of the land. 

Ogan was out on the beach, checking his boat; Ogan and his sons, stout creatures carved from stone and weathered by hard work. It was Ogan who ran to see what I was staring at. He took one look and called to his blood to join him. We stood, the five of us, encircling this unexpected gift from the sea while the wind tugged at our cloaks and the rain began to fall.

Ogan’s eldest was all for throwing him back at once. "A dead soul _,_ " he claimed, making the sign of the eye to ward off evil and ill luck. "Belongs in the sea _._ " Ogan poked at the silent form with his hook ended staff and the man stirred, a protest of pain that affirmed his life.

"Kill him anyway _,_ " the youngest said, reaching to tangle his hands in the sprawl of hair that emerged from the weed. "He’s raider’s get."

The man’s hair was stained with salt and water, but there were hints of straw in among its strands. The folk are by nature small and dark: dark hair, dark eyes and silent hearts, battered into strength by the harshness of our lives. The raiders are tall and fey creatures, their heads crowned with butter and straw and their eyes grey like the sea that spawns them. _This_ man was scarcely taller than I - but his hair and skin were pale. A getling, then. Those that were born among us were always exposed to the sea once their bloodline was known. Very few survived the ordeal. Fewer still lived to adulthood. But this was a grown man. One fathered by force, perhaps; a slave from a raider’s ship, sunk in the storm. 

"Aye," Ogan began to murmur. "Throw him back ..."

And then he opened his eyes.

Blue those eyes were. Bluer than the summer sky on a fair day. I remember how my heart skipped seeing them that first time. I will always remember that moment. I gazed into them so many times thereafter, and yet I never tired of their beauty. I saw them filled with pain and with wonder, witnessed them heavy with sorrow and bright with laughter. They were the eyes of a god, for only the gods can possess such true colours - and yet they belonged to a mortal man, one torn and dying in the aftermath of the storm.

"He is a gift _,_ " I said, and they looked at me, those weatherbeaten men, hearing the weight of power in my voice. I do not know if I spoke from my heart or from true prophecy, but I spoke and they listened, remembering who I was and what I was trained to be. "A sending from the old powers. Ill luck will fall if this gift is refused."

"So you say, old woman." Ogan was not one to be cowed by words. "And you may be right. But it is winter and there is little to spare for the mouths we have. This man is near death. Would you have us starve our families for one already marked for the deep journey? Jurgan is right. Dead souls belong to the sea. And he is not of the folk. None of us will take him in."

" _I_ will take him in," I said. "I found him. I will care for him. If he dies I will send him on the journey with honour. And if he lives - " I bent to touch the man’s cheek, turning those wild eyes towards me. He blinked once, fought for focus and met my gaze with confusion and puzzlement. _Help me_ , those eyes pleaded, then closed again, his body shuddering with cold and pain. "If he lives," I concluded, "then he will be as my son and I will shelter him."

Ogan frowned at me, knowing I made the orphan oath without knowing the soul I claimed. But it was my right. And making it, I bound that lost soul to myself, for good or for ill.

They brought him to my house and left him there. I battened the door and I stoked up the fire and I called on all the skills I had been gifted with. It took me seven days, but I saved him.

Not without a struggle. I had no name with which to call him back from the journeying. The cold and the sea had eaten into his strength and the wounds he carried were deep. That first day I washed the rents that marred his body and I marvelled at the sleekness of his skin, the tautness of his muscles. His hands were hardened, but not hard like those of the men I knew. His flesh had seen the sun, but it had painted him with gold, not withered him to old leather the way it did the folk as they grew through their youth. He was a man, not a child, but his face held the openness of the young and his body echoed their vitality. My hand trembled as I treated each cut and tear in his skin. This was not my own sent back to me, but I had claimed him as my son, and my heart demanded that I treat him as such. 

I wrapped him in blankets and laid heated stones around his chilled frame. His eyes opened to panic and confusion, and I calmed him, holding him in my arms and soothing his fears. I fed him bitter ale laced with secret herbs and sang him to sleep with the old songs. I made my magics and I wove my spells, bidding the flesh to heal and the spirit to stay within it. I nursed him through fever and delirium, tending the disgraces of his body and comforting his distress. In his fever he cried out, speaking names I did not know. His dreams took him back to grief and he wrestled with it, calling on \- calling on I know not what. His family? His lost companions? Or his gods?

I spoke to mine in the days that followed, praying that he be spared, asking that he be given the strength to live. _A year_ , I begged, knowing better than to seek far beyond the moment. _Give me a year at least ..._ Someone listened; his fever broke and he slept a healing sleep, for which I was grateful.

Seven days. On the morning of the eighth he woke and fixed me with those blue eyes, asking silent questions I could not answer, although admitting it near broke my heart. He was under an enchantment. _That_ much I could determine at least. It clouded his memory, and locked away all that was past; he woke that day like a child new born, without even the words to ask his name.

I asked the stones to name him for me, calling on the old gods to give me guidance. _Elfir_ was the name that came as my answer, kin, the cast of the stones said, to the sleek otters that danced in the fringes of the sea. He accepted it without question - accepted _everything_ I said without question. As the days passed I taught him to speak again and marveled at the stubborn determination he brought to the task. His words were halting, each one a struggle, and he rationed them like treasures, smiling at each one learned as if it were a precious thing indeed. His strength returned quicker than his speech, which was rare in all the days I had him to myself. I found him tasks to do and he did them willingly, learning how to knot raw twine into net, to tend the fire and help me at my loom. I dressed him in the fashion of the folk, with breeches of soft sealskin, a shirt of woven wool and a warm sweater patterned with the mysteries. I even cut him boots from the old goatskin that had hung over my door and wove a new hanging to take its place. His hands were quick as they wrapped the shuttles for my task; he laughed as I told him the weaver’s tales, just as I had once told them to my own blood, under that same roof.

They were cold days, bitter with the last snows of winter. And yet they were filled with warmth and joy for the first time in so many years. He was like a child in so many ways; marveling at each new thing, laughing at life, enjoying everything that came. He was no getling, sired with lust and treated with contempt. He was more like a warrior from the old tales, like one of the lesser gods come back to earth. His hair was not butter or straw but pure spun gold; it tumbled around his face like the surface of the sea, filled with restless waves and wild currents. The beard that grew to match it was just as unruly and I took to shearing it as if he were one of my sheep, trimming it to a certain neatness only to watch it curl and tangle again, almost in front of my eyes.

Good days. _Deceiving_ days. I told him that he was my son and he believed me. I told myself that this could last - and I believed that it would, although a place in my heart told me otherwise. Oh, he was happy enough, especially when I loosed him free of the house to explore the beach or take out line and net to catch fresh fish for our supper. But there were times I caught him gazing out to sea with pensive eyes, those blue depths haunted with knowing that he should _know_ and yet somehow knowing nothing.

Of his old life only the metal band remained. It had rusted tight about his wrist, the loop that held it in place seared shut by the salt of the sea. I tried polishing at it, but while the surface came to shimmer with a dark sheen like the coats of the otters I had named him for, the hinge remained tight and the loop never moved. He wore it like a trophy, his fingers exploring it whenever he sat and stared at the sea, and I hated it with a passion I could not explain. It was a slave band, a mark of ownership. While he wore it, he would never truly be free.

And sometimes I wondered if it were _that_ that cast the spell and imprisoned him from his true self. 

Time moved on. The spring came and the folk began to gather again. Elfir walked beside me to those gatherings, learning to greet the elders with respect, and earning himself admiring smiles from some of the younger women. The folk were closed to him at first; he was a stranger and the story of his arrival had whispered around the settlement until it had become a true tale rather than simple news. But my new son had an open heart and a generous smile - and the people knew me and most trusted my gifts. In the end they made him welcome, although many of the men treated him as a simpleton, mistaking his halting words for lost wits. He suffered a little because of it; he was an easy target for jokes and he lacked the skill to answer taunts with well-woven retorts. I praised him for his patience, admiring the way he kept this temper at such times, even though the anger flared in his eyes and his hands clenched with frustration.

"I - might - _hurt_ \- them," he explained after one such incident, stumbling over the words the way he always did. I nodded and pressed his arm to show I understood. I had watched him chop wood for my fire, haul the long line and the net it supported up the beach, and seen him challenge his body for the sheer joy of using it. He could tumble with acrobatic skill, turning cartwheels and somersaults, dancing and spinning with quicksilver moves much like the otters I had named him for. He was gifted with an easy strength and a speed that none of the folk had a hope of matching. They were tough, and sturdy, well used to hauling in their nets or bending their strength to the oar, but they were not warriors, and _he_ was. His heart could not remember, but he knew his body would. He held back from physical retaliation, afraid that he might do something he would later regret.

I was proud of him for that.

Oh, I loved him, my Elfir, my Otterkin, sent to me by the sea. He was the son I had lost, the grandchild I had never known. He filled my cold house with laughter and my heart with happiness. As the spring turned into summer he took his place with the other men of the folk, herding my sheep up the slopes in search of better pasture, rowing out to the fishing grounds to cast the deep nets, and joining in the building work. He hewed stone from the mountain, cut steps and channels, and built walls with the best of them. They welcomed his help; he laboured without complaint, and when I could I would sit with the other women and watch him work, a young god beside the old men, clean limbed and blessed with beauty.

I had work of my own, and I pursued it with a glad heart that season. There were herbs to harvest and set to dry. Wool to gather and comb. My smoke house was wreathed in fragrance almost every day. And the women came to me seeking charms and tokens, asking after their futures and begging medicines for their children. That summer not a few came with excuses rather than reasons. They came to see my golden child, walking down the salt strand with an easy stride and his upper body bare to the summer sun. They lingered to smile at him as he gathered wood for the winter pile or unloaded a catch of fish ready for the smoke house. One or two were bold enough to ask his favour on the festival days - and they got it, although afterwards he would slink back to my side and give me a sheepish look of apology.

I loved him for that too. Loved him for the way he treated my sex with tenderness rather than need. The men of the folk are solid and dependable types, who treat their women with fierce joy and guard them with jealousy. They say little to the fairer sex, but they cherish them, and he had that way about him, my Elfir, for all his raider-born looks.

Six months went by. The year turned. The old gods heard our prayers and filled the world with the bounties of harvest time.

And I began to be afraid.

My son was a constant joy to me - and a constant worry. Words had grown no easier for him and he wrestled to express even the simplest phrase. I knew that there was something bothering him, but while he tried to explain the matter to me, all he succeeded in doing was growing angry at his own limitations. "Someone," he said, packing importance into that one word. His hand moved to cover his heart. "Empty," was the second thought he spoke. That wasn’t quite right. He shook his head and tried again. "Incomplete," he managed, and smiled with a mixture of triumph and frustration. His eyes turned seawards, gazing out at the far horizon as if it held all the answers he needed. Perhaps it did.

" _Needed_ ," he concluded, turning back to me with pleading eyes. I couldn’t explain the way he felt. I knew _he_ couldn’t either, and that was what bothered him so much.

"I’m sorry," I told him and pulled him into a hug, loving him with all my heart. He _was_ incomplete. A man lost to himself, and I had no power to help him find his way again. He hugged back, I remember. I remember so many little things.

"Little mother?" he asked on another day, this one a rich evening when the sun dipped into the sea like a cauldron of pure copper. My heart sang when he called me that.

"Yes?" I answered lightly, looking up from my weaving to meet his eyes. Blue eyes. They hadn’t changed.

"Not - _folk_ ," he questioned, touching - first his own sun touched locks, then my own hair. It had been dark once, dark as a raven’s wing, but now it is gray like cygnet feathers, and it was gray then, a brittle dryness weathered, like me, by age and the wind. "What?"

"I don’t know, my son." There was a part of me that did not _want_ to know. What if he _was_ raider’s get, the child of a princeling, or even the son of the man that killed mine? The raiders are a cruel race and they know no gentleness. "You were a gift, given to me by the sea. Perhaps the gods made you. Perhaps there is no other man like you, in all the races of the world."

I was wrong. _So_ wrong. But I did not know that then. He was mine and I loved him. That was all I needed to know.

Traders came up the stone way, their donkeys laden with trinkets and their eyes greedy for what we had to offer them. Furs and skins we traded, exchanging the white coats of the winter seals for ironwork and sharp steel knives. Elfir had been keeping secrets; he coaxed treasures out of one wily trader with a pouch full of shimmering pearls, offering them up one by one until the man’s eyes were as wide as cauldron lids. He’d been diving out in the bay, I knew that. Swimming deep into clear water while other men lazed at the end of their nets. His exercise had profited him well; it bought him a sharp knife to replace the blunt iron one I’d found for him, a new buckle for the belt that graced his hips, and gifts a plenty for the folk he called his friends.

To Ogan and his sons he gave a length of heavy canvas, enough to craft a new sail for their boat. Ogan was astonished, I recall, lost for words, for all he was the wordsmith then and best spoken of all of us. The canvas was a precious thing indeed, oil soaked and waterproofed. The old man had been eyeing the bolt all day, but his trade had been in salt and steel; he’d not the furs to buy the fabric. Elfir had waited until he’d turned away, certain then that the canvas lay unclaimed - and then he’d bought it, counting fat pearls into an eager hand with an amused grin.

There were other gifts too; trinkets of beads to grace the wrists and throats of women who’d smiled at him on Midsummer’s eve; tiny casks of precious spices to charm their mothers lest the gifts offend; and for me - a barrel of salt, a brand new iron cooking pot, a whole bolt of soft linen, and three silver bangles which he slid onto my wrist despite my protests at his foolish generosity. "Nothing for yourself?" I complained and he showed me the knife and the buckle and I forgave him. Just a little. I had a gift for him too; one purchased with the rare herbs that I had gathered. I’d noted the hole that pierced his earlobe almost from the first day - now, months later, I had the ring to fill it, a heavy gold loop, enough to pay a freeman’s passage on the day he took the deep journey.

He let me twist it into place and frowned a little, his eyes taking on a haunted look, as if the weight and sensation were somehow both familiar and strange. But afterwards he wore it with pleasured pride; the ring glinted at the next gathering, and earned him a line in the reckoning song. _Elfir’s gifts of gold and pleasure ..._ The words hit the target they were aimed at; not my son on that occasion, but those who’d earned his generosity. There were at least four flushed faces in among the women’s circle that _I_ could see; maybe there were more. My child was not short of admirers, and it was hard for him to say _no ..._

Hard for him to say anything at all. Once again he passed in the riddle game, and refused to speak in the praise song. Men boasted of their prowess at sea, their skill with net and line, their success at hunting. But Elfir sighed and waved the speaking staff away, having to sit and listen as others made their outrageous claims.

The traders left, carrying tales back to the southlands, tales of the sea scoured beaches and the hardy folk that dwelt there. Tales too, of the man with golden hair and eyes the colour of the summer sky; I heard the things they said, the guesses they made before they walked away. A prince of the fair folk bound to the mortal realm by cold iron, was one suggestion. It worried me.

Mostly because I feared that it might be true.

More time passed. The days grew shorter, and the nights began to feel cold. Autumn was nearly upon us - and on the morning of a new day, almost before the folk had begun to be about their chores, the raiders came.

One ship. Thirty men. It was rarely more than that. The high prowed vessel slid onto the beach out of a low fog, warriors leaping into the shallow surf with gleaming eyes and wolfish grins. They carried swords and axes and they strode ashore as if they owned the world. Which they did - _that_ day.

Pandemonium erupted. Men and women snatched up their most precious things and made a run for it. Dogs barked. Children cried in terror. I caught Elfir by the arm and tried to drag him away.

"Quick, oh _quick_ ," I pleaded, tugging at him for speed. "If we hurry we can make the caves before they come."

He looked down at me - I remember that, since he was not that much taller than I and we had always looked each other eye to eye before. But he looked _down_ ; his shoulders had lifted and a fey light had come to his eyes. " _Go_ ," he ordered. The word offered no argument. I let go of his arm and my heart quailed.

_Elfir ..._

My true son had been killed in a raid. He’d been playing on the beach when the boat came and he hadn’t run quick enough to escape the advance. He’d tried to hide among the sheep and a sword had struck him down. I’d found him there, covered in his own blood while the old ewe butted at him, wondering why he wouldn’t move.

_Oh, Elfir!_

He walked away from me. Towards the beach. He snatched up a polehook to use as a weapon and took up a defensive stance right in the middle of the storm steps. A brave, a _foolish_ , gesture. The raiders were coming. And they’d sweep him off his feet and trample him underfoot as if he were nothing.

" ** _Go!_** " he ordered a second time. a command, not just to me, but all of the folk that swirled behind him. Women snatched up their children and ran. Ogan grabbed my arm and dragged me away.

"Foolish simpleton," he complained, glancing back with a shake of his head. "Who does he think he is?"

 _He doesn’t know_.

But then neither did the raiders.

They hit a wall of fury that day. Five men were knocked senseless in the fight and more went home nursing bloody noses and damaged pride. My Elfir, my otterkin, beat the sword out of the first man’s hand and used it to defend the steps, holding back the advance until all the women and children were safely secured in the twisting depths of our hidden caves. He fought, Jurgan said afterwards, like a warrior from a song. Jurgan was hiding in a overturned boat, watchman for the day. He saw the raiders hit the rising steps like a wave, and saw them stumble back, cursing and swearing as one man - and one man alone \- made them pay passage.

It was a brave stand. It bought time and it saved both lives and honour. The raiders do not attack our settlement for gold or other precious things. They come to take slaves, to rape our women and steal our children. They got neither that day. A golden haired whirlwind defended us. They’d come expecting easy pickings and they left with little more than brusied heads and stung pride.

They left _us_ a warning.

He’d held the steps as long as he could but, on that day, not even he could hold back the tide forever. The raiders had rushed him again and again and, finally, they had overwhelmed him. While half their remaining force scoured the now deserted settlement, our wild eyed defender had paid the cost of his defiance.

They didn’t kill him. _That_ would have been too honourable a reward. They beat him into insensibility, pierced holes in his wrists and ankles and strung him up by his heels on the racks where we dried the nets. _Then_ they used him for target practice, throwing knives and stones while they betted on each other’s accuracy. He was bleeding in more than a dozen places by the time Jurgan cut him down. That was hours later; the pebbles of the beach carried a crimson stain through the next three high water storms.

But they _didn’t_ kill him. They left him to die, that much was certain. They also pissed in our water barrels and spoiled what food they could find - but they left empty handed, which was something that had _never_ happened, in all the long history that the folk could remember. By the time we crept, wary eyed and trembling from our hiding places, the boat was gone, and Jurgan was crouched in the meeting hall, dabbing at open wounds and weeping white hot tears of fury.

My own were cold. Elfir’s face was battered into bloody ruin. His body was torn and broken, and the blood ran red from too many wounds, the worst of which were the rope burned holes where they’d dragged raw hemp through savage swords thrusts. _Yes,_ he had hurt them but he had _not_ killed – and it had been in defence of the innocent. He’d faced them as a warrior and they’d honoured that with abuse and torture.

"He was like a song," Jurgan kept saying. "A song."

The settlement was divided; half wanted to give thanks for the deed, the other half cursing it, fearing that it would bring back anger and fire on all our heads. I ignored them both. The only thing in my heart was my son, and he was closer to death that day than he’d ever been that first time on the beach. Ogan and his sons brought him home a second time. They helped me gather my medicines, they helped me wash his broken body, they helped me bandage and stitch his wounds, and they helped me watch him through all that long night and the next.

"Like a song. A hero from a song."

_A hero ..._

I didn’t want a hero. I wanted my Elfir, my golden son, my Otterkin. I watched him for four nights, bathing the blood from his face, making magic as best I could and praying to each and every god I knew. On the morning of the fourth day he finally opened his eyes.

Blue eyes.

He tried to smile at me, and it was then I knew I hadn’t lost him.

But he was hurt. Oh, so badly hurt. It was days before he could feed himself, weeks before he was strong enough to lift himself from the bed and attend to his own personal needs. I tended him all that time, watching each wound like a hawk lest it take infection and fester. He endured my attentions without complaint, though I knew the barest movement pained him. I felt each wince, suffered each soft moan, and wept inwardly at the bravery of his heart. The time he took to heal was bitter frustration to him; he tired easily and spent most of those days neither asleep nor awake but in a drowsy state part way between. Perhaps the herbal teas I gave him helped a little with that. 

The folk put a watch on the sea, but the raiders did not return. Not that month, nor the next. As the days went by their anger died, and they came to thank the man who had saved them. Not all at once, but they _did_ come, bearing tokens of gratitude, offering what help they could. Other women stacked the wood and fish in my smoke house. Gathered my herbs. Milked my ewes. _I_ was focused purely on my son, on the laughter he had brought to my heart and the need to see it there again.

And at the end of the second month, sitting up in my old rocking chair with a blanket tucked warmly around him, Elfir turned to me and said: "I’m - sorry - little mother."

They were the first words he’d spoken since the day of the raid. I didn’t know how to answer them. I took his hand in mine and held it, and his finger closed over mine, seeking forgiveness. I gave it to him with all my heart. Knowing - as I did so - that when the raiders came again _he_ would be there, defending me. Defending all of us. Because, if he didn’t know _who_ he was, then he did know _what_ he was.

A hero.

Like in the old songs.

A few days later a stranger arrived in the settlement. He came up the stone road, the one the traders use, although autumn was well on by now and the weather was unsettled and travelling a miserable task at best. Jurgan came to tell me about it and I shooed him out into the herb room because Elfir was sleeping and I was hoping it would be a healing sleep.

"Old woman," Ogan’s son said, his eyes bright with excitement. "There is a man come to the folk, unlike any I have ever seen before. He’s tall and - "

"A raider," I interrupted, casting an anxious glance at my curtained doorway. Jurgan shook his head.

"No. No, he’s no raider. He doesn’t carry _any_ weapon. Or trade goods. Not even a pack on his shoulder. But you should see him, Kirkell. It’s like he’s cut from the mountain. Solid. But graceful with it - like that mountain cat that father killed three years back? He’s tall - like I said - a good head over everyone, and his hair is - is _warm_ , like old honey."

"Honey?" I echoed. A tightness was building in my chest. Foreboding came to sit on my shoulder and I had no power to banish it. I had asked for a year, all those months ago, and given it little thought since then. But the year was drawing to a close ...

"Honey," Jurgan confirmed and grinned behind the darkness of his beard. "And guess what, old woman. His eyes are _blue._ "

Blue.

Blue like the summer sky painting the air over ripening corn. Blue like the tiny flowers that speckled the meadows at the end of spring. Blue like the waters of the high mountain lake, so deep it reflected stars, even in the middle of the day.

And blue like the eyes of my son, quietly haunted by the emptiness in his own heart.

_For whom did I save him?_

_For my self, my selfish, foolish self, wanting what old women want, wanting to chain him as surely as the iron chains him still?_

_Or for another, for another purpose, another destiny?_

_Who comes, seeking my gift from the sea?_

_An enemy?_

I would throw myself on a raider’s blade before I would give him up. Before I handed him back to slavery, or worse, to death.

_Or a friend?_

"He’s looking for Elfir," I said, hearing the weariness in my voice, wondering how I was so sure. Jurgan frowned at me.

"Yes," he said, watching my face, looking for guidance. "No one has said anything yet. He’s one of us, old woman. He’s your son. _You_ must decide."

"I will deal with this," I decided, reaching for my shawl with a trembling hand. "He sleeps, and his strength is returning. Stay with him?"

"I will." 

I walked from my house and across the beach, following the path that led to the storm steps although I didn’t see it. My eyes were full of tears. _Perhaps there is no other man like you, in all the races of the world_.

I was wrong.

The stranger was sitting in the meeting hall, a mug of guesting ale between his broad hands and a polite, if frustrated, smile on his face. Jurgan had not exaggerated. He was - _solid_. And tall - a man whose presence filled the low ceilinged room and whose head would have brushed its stone beams had he been standing up.

But he was sitting. I had time to study him from my place in the doorway; study the shape of his face, and the kindly lines that supported his smile. He was handsome in his own way, less golden than my otterkin, but very much of the same wreaking. A tanned skin, an open, expressive face \- clean shaven, the way Elfir had first come to me - and an air of controlled strength, a power that he wore with patience rather than pride.

He was dressed a little strangely; his breeches were tight, made up from layers of leather woven in intricate patterns. His shirt was made of soft linen and he wore a leather jerkin over it, a sleeveless thing as soft as the fabric underneath. There were leather bands along each forearm, decorated with metal - and there was a dark jade amulet hanging above his breastbone.

There was also a bearskin cloak tumbled by his booted feet, which was the only thing about him that really made any sense.

"Hi," he greeted me, standing up with automatic politeness then ducking a little self-consciously. "Are you here to speak to me, or have you just come to stare, like all the rest?"

"I am Kirkell, wise woman of the folk, keeper of the old secrets. Who are you, and why have you come to us?"

He looked relieved. "My name," he said, sinking back onto his stool, "is Hercules. I’ve come all the way from Greece - actually," he corrected with an almost embarrassed shrug, "my uncle brought me, so I can’t claim to have actually traveled the _whole_ distance - but I have walked a long way today. I’ve stopped in every village along this coast and - I’m beginning to think I’m chasing a dream. I’m looking for a friend." The statement was soft, but the pain behind it was almost tangible. "My best friend. We were - in a place we shouldn’t have been, trying to steal back something that shouldn’t have been stolen in the first place. Everything was fine until - " He looked up from his hands and at my expressionless face, and he sighed, perhaps thinking that his explanation would make no sense to me. It wouldn’t have done. Not then. I didn’t _know_ him then. "Anyway, we were separated and I only just managed to get out the way we’d got in, and he - I don’t know how he managed to escape, only that he did, and I - I should have been with him, because it was my fault we were there in the first place  ..." He tailed off, perhaps realising he was only expressing his sense of guilt, and not the reason he was sitting in _our_ meeting hall, talking to me. "I’ve been looking for him ever since." His hand curled around the amulet over his breastbone, a curiously gentle gesture. "Nearly a month now."

A _month?_

The tightness around my heart relaxed and I breathed a quiet prayer of thanks under my breath. It wasn’t Elfir he was searching for. It couldn’t be. Nine months he had been my son. Nine long months.

"There is no one here but the folk," I said. I said it gently. This man carried a great weight in his heart, a weight of guilt and anxiety for someone he cared for very deeply. I understood that. I had learnt to love my son with the same kind of strength. The man named Hercules sighed.

"Yeah," he breathed. "That’s what they all say. Listen \- if you see him - well, he’s about _so_ tall - " The gesture measured Elfir’s height exactly. My breath caught in my throat. "Blond hair, blue eyes \- he’d be kinda hard to miss around here, I guess. Talks a lot. Fights like a whirlwind."

"Are you a hero?" I asked, the question tumbling out of me almost in desperation. It couldn’t be Elfir, it _couldn’t_ be. But in my heart I knew it was and I didn’t know what to do about it.

 _Tell him to go,_ one part of my mind insisted. _Elfir need never know ..._

But the other part was remembering blue eyes and the struggle that lay within them. There had been a sense of duty unfulfilled. _Someone_ , he’d said. Was this the someone he needed to remember?

"Some people say so." Hercules was looking vaguely embarrassed. "I just - do what I have to, really."

"Would _he_ say so? Your friend, I mean."

He chuckled, glancing down at the jade that still nestled in his hand. "Probably. Look - I’ve taken up enough of your time. If my friend isn’t here, then I’ll - just have to move on. Keep looking, you know?" He stood up as he spoke, remembering this time to duck his head as he did so. I stared up at him, measuring the sorrow in his eyes.

"Why did you think he was here?" I queried. He gave me a thoughtful look. 

"Because," he announced with measured certainty, "Hades \- the Lord of the Underworld - told me he wasn’t dead, and the Fates assured me he was nowhere in Greece. Poseidon asked the voices of the sea and the whisper came back from the North that a mortal man had fallen into their embrace, carrying the scent of Morpheus’s realm. My uncle brought me here, where the voices were strongest, and I’ll search this entire coast until I find him."

I blinked. That hadn’t been the answer I was expecting. 

"Oh," I responded. "I see ..." 

"No, you don’t," he smiled. "But it doesn’t really matter. Thank you for your time." He made to leave, ducking under the lintel of the wide doorway, the one that led out to the storm steps and the path back up to the cliff.

"Wait," I called after him. His words hadn’t made much sense to me, but I had known one of the names he’d mentioned. _Morpheus’s realm._ Morpheus was lord of the dreamworld. And what was Elfir if _not_ in a waking dream, lost within himself? I didn’t want to lose him, but nor did I wish to deny him a chance to be free of the spell that held him in thrall.

And if Elfir was _not_ his friend, then I would have lost nothing. Nothing at all.

"I think you’d better come with me."

Hercules followed me down the steps, his long stride taking them two at a time. I think he fought against a desire to help me; I was an old woman even then and used a stick to support my uneven gait. Elfir had _always_ helped me, letting me lean on his arm as we climbed the steps. It had been a strong arm he offered me.

 _And will be again,_ I remember thinking fiercely.

It began to rain as we crossed the beach. Hercules threw his cloak around his shoulders, then moved to walk beside me, holding it out to shelter us both. I was amused to find myself so close to him; he moved with an easy grace, so unlike the other men I knew.

And so _like_ my Elfir, my son, my Otterkin.

_Like a song. A hero from a song ..._

He had to duck to enter my house. The doorway was deliberately set low to offset the impact of the winter wind. Inside he straightened up and looked around with curious eyes. I wondered if they had houses like mine in Greece.

"You’re the wise woman," he recalled, looking at my bunches of herbs, the many pots that held my lotions and oils, and the other odd things that cluttered my shelves. "You make potions and medicines? Do you also speak for your gods?"

" I talk to them," I told him bluntly. "They don’t talk back to me."

"Lucky you," he considered wryly and I felt a shiver go down my spine. _The Lord of the Underworld told me he wasn’t dead ..._

What sort of man had I brought to my house? What was I _doing?_

Jurgan came out from the bedroom when he heard our voices. He stood in the doorway as if defending it, and in my heart I thanked him for that. Perhaps witnessing that fight against the raiders had inspired him a little. It was certain that witnessing what came _after_ had given him nightmares for days.

"You brought him."

" I did. Is Elfir still sleeping?"

Jurgan smiled behind his beard. "No. We’ve been playing tally stones. I’m winning."

"You cheat. Jurgan, this is Hercules. Hercules, this is Jurgan Olganson."

"Pleased to meet you," Hercules noted. He sounded like he meant it. Jurgan merely grunted.

"My son, Elfir, is in the next room. I want you to meet him."

He shrugged. "Sure. You think _he_ might have seen my friend?"

I nodded to Jurgan, who lifted the curtain with a florish. "No." I whispered, understanding that this was the point of no return. "I think he _is_ your friend ..."

If I had doubted, if I had _wished_ it be not so, all those doubts and hopes fled at the look that passed across Hercules’s face. He was the son of Zeus, I was to learn later, child of a god and blessed with divine strength; but he had a mortal heart and it was _that_ that wrote that look on his expressive features. Recognition. Delight. _Relief_. And a sense of love so deep it could have taken root at the heart of the world.

" _Iolaus -_ " he breathed, naming my son with his true name, speaking it like a litany, weighing it with gratitude. My heart broke. Just a little. I loved my Elfir, my son, my Otterkin. But it was an older love that had come to claim him, and I had no power to deny it. No wish to, either. Not after that look.

Hercules strode past Jurgan and ducked through the archway, moving to stand at the bedside. I followed him, smiling reassurance at my son as I did so. His expression was confused and his eyes filled with puzzlement. His friend looked down at him and a frown of equal puzzlement settled on _his_ face. It was clear that Elfir did not know him - or if he _did_ , had no place to put him in his thoughts.

It was a crisp day. Jurgan had lit a fire in the hearth which drove a little of the chill from the air. Elfir was bundled up with blankets, and warmly clad in the thick jumper I had knitted for him while I held vigil at his side. His hair was rumpled from sleep, and his beard was in need of a trim; he looked a little like a lost orphan lamb.

"Who -?" he managed, staring at the stranger with wide eyes. I wondered how to answer him.

"Don’t you know me?" Hercules asked, crouching down so that their eyes were on a common level. "Iolaus? It’s _me_. Hercules? Remember?"

" _Yes_ ," Elfir answered - and then his face fell. "No," my son admitted reluctantly. "No." He shook his head and lifted his hand to scrub blearily at his eyes. He felt weary, I knew; since the fight sleep had had little power to refresh him, although he _was_ recovering slowly. The action slid the jumper sleeve back from his wrist revealing the rawness of the wound that was healing there - and the iron cuff that still clasped his arm, its surface gleaming as it reflected the firelight.

" _Gods_ ," Hercules cursed, reaching out his own hand so fast neither Jurgan or I saw it move. One minute Elfir was rubbing at his eyes - and the next he was staring down at the hand that encircled his, offering no protest as the man who claimed to be his friend carefully turned the injured wrist towards him. The stranger’s lips tightened and his free hand traced the damage with gentle fingers. _Sword thrust_ , I saw him assess, putting the matter to one side for later consideration. It wasn’t that that had shocked him, however angered he was to find it there. It was the metal band. His fingers pushed the sleeve away, exposing the whole of it and his eyes closed in brief, and decidedly shaken, comprehension.

"When we agreed to make the journey," he murmured, his eyes fixing themselves on the matching blue that watched him with wary confusion, "Hephaestus himself forged a chain that would bind us both into the dream world, hoping it would enable us to reach our destination. It was to link us together and stop us from waking before we wanted to."

My own eyes went wide. Not a _slave_ chain as I’d long thought, but a lifeline. One forged by a god, if I read the words aright.

"It worked too well. It made us _part_ of the dreamscape, drew us into it entire, complete. When we were attacked, we discovered how vulnerable we were - and it hampered our ability to fight and defend ourselves. We were in a tight spot. I had no choice. I broke the chain to save both our lives. And _that_ was when I lost you.

"I was wrong," he breathed, an admission of painful guilt. "I should have snapped the cuff, woken you up, sent you back to the mortal world. But I was in a hurry and I broke the chain; it let Morpheus’ creatures get between us - and then everything around me shifted and changed, and you were gone. I searched for hours, but I ran out of time. I had to go back, had to return the talisman to the real world before the sun rose. So I opened the cuff on _my_ wrist - and woke up alone. You weren’t _there_ ," he explained, a memory he had difficulty facing even now. "Just this - " His free hand touched the amulet around his neck, "lying where you’d been sleeping. I didn’t understand at first - and then I realised that you’d tried to send me a message. To let me know you were all right. I don’t know what you did, Iolaus, but somehow you fought free of the dreamscape. Somehow you came _here_  ...."

"A gift," I whispered. "I thought he was a gift."

"He _was_ ," Jurgan interrupted fiercely. "He held back the raiders. He _saved_ us, old woman. He saved us all."

"Raiders?" Hercules broke that intense contact for a minute to throw Olgan’s son a wary glance. "Hence the - "

"Yes," I answered. "He held the storm steps until the folk were safe away. He knocked the fight out of five of them, but the rest prevailed in the end. They took a savage revenge."

"Five ..." Those steel blue eyes widened with quiet amazement. "By the gods," he reacted, turning back to stare at his friend with decided astonishment. "How do you manage it, huh? Five men - holding off however many more ... While you’re still _asleep?_ " 

_Asleep?_

I drew in a gasp, suddenly understanding what he meant. The iron had been meant to bind them from waking, and it had done just that. It had locked Elfir’s mind in an endless slumber; even though he had escaped the dreamscape he had not escaped the chain. All these months, fighting to master even the simplest word ... I had been sheltering a man condemned to sleepwalk through his life. If he could offer so much life and fire while in _that_ state, what sort of man would he be awake?

_And will he remember me, or will what we have shared be nothing but a dream to him?_

Hercules was laughing softly, amused at the situation, admiring of his friend’s remarkable achievement. Five men. In his _sleep_. Suddenly I wasn’t sure I _wanted_ to know the man he truly was. 

"Time to wake up, buddy." Strong hands curled over solid iron. Fingers flexed. Something gave with a noticeable _snap_ , and then the iron cuff simply melted away, leaving nothing behind. Elfir blinked. Shook his head. Stared at Hercules - and then curled up with a sudden realisation of pain.

" _Ow_ ," he complained, hugging wounded wrists to his chest and adopting a look of petulant protest. "Ow. Ow, ow, ow ow, _ow._ " He paused, mentally numbering the sources of his discontent, then added a final, "Oohwow, _ow,_ " with determined objection. I’d taken a half step forward at the first cry, but stopped in total disconcertion at the rest of it. Hercules simply looked at him.

"Feel better?" he asked warmly. Elfir - no, _Iolaus_ \- rolled back against the pillows and grinned at him.

" _Now_ I do," he said, no hint of effort or hesitation in his voice. "Thanks, Herc. I was beginning to think I’d _never_ wake up."

"My fault," Hercules acknowledged, pulling over a stool and sitting on it. "You _knew?_ You - were aware you weren’t awake?"

"Kind of. It was like I - I was trapped in my own perceptions. I was dreaming, but - I was dreaming reality. Weird. And uh - " he lifted one hand to consider the tenderness that lingered at his wrist, "boy, do I get myself in trouble sleepwalking."

"I noticed." The comment sounded unsurprised - almost as if Hercules expected his friend to get into trouble on a regular basis. Then the look on the tall mans’ face changed; the banter dropped into more serious tones as he studied his companion with concerned eyes. "You okay?"

The man I had claimed as my son thought the question over very carefully. He took a more serious look at the half healed wound - along with the band of pale skin below it where the iron band had sat for so long - and his eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he smiled; that quiet smile I knew so well, one tainted with mischief and the sheer joy of _living._ "Yeah," he breathed with confidence. " _I’m_ okay." Their eyes met. Unspoken words were exchanged. They brought the smile back to Hercules’ handsome face, and found voice in the sudden giggle that his friend could not suppress.

I’d always liked that sound; I found I was smiling despite the weight that had come to roost in my heart. _You knew you wouldn’t hold onto him forever,_ I reminded myself sorrowfully. _He’s whole. That’s what you wanted. Don’t weep for **that,** old woman …_

But I did. A tear crept down my cheek and washed away my smile. I quickly stepped back into the outer room to hide it, making a show of taking off my shawl and chivying Jurgan to fetch a draft of the guesting ale from my store. 

"So what took you so long?" Iolaus was asking. His friend sighed.

"You’re a hard man to find. I had no _idea_ where to start. I checked all of our usual haunts and, of course, you weren’t in any of _them_. Then I started asking around – none of the Argonauts had seen you, and neither had Xena or Gabrielle. You weren’t in Attica; none of those second cousins and twice removed aunts of yours had caught sight of you, and your _grandmother_ certainly hadn’t. I went to ask Hephaestus - since I was in the area - and _he_ suggested I ask Poseidon. Which I did." A wry smile tugged at his lips as he spoke. "He owed me a favour. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the voices of the sea finally sent me here - with a little help from my uncle. Once he and Heph got back from talking to Morpheus. They both thought they ought to have a word with him before he misunderstood the situation entirely. _That_ was the major delay. You know how time shifts in the dreamworld. They went for an hour or two and _I_ waited a week. But I’m here now." The wry smile became an apologetic grin. "So - your wake-up call was a month late. You did _say_ you wanted to sleep in ..."

"Not _that_ long," came the amused retort. "But \- hey. _Wait_ a minute. A _month?_ That can’t be right. I’ve been here - " He struggled to place time around his memories. "I’ve been here – _ages,_ " he concluded worriedly. My heart ached to hear the sudden note of distress in his voice. Had he no memory of it at all?

 _I have truly lost him_ , I remember thinking. _My son is a stranger to me …_

And then he lifted his head and his voice, and healed that wound in my heart with the words I had thought never to hear from him again.

"Little mother?" he called anxiously. "How long - ?"

"Nine months," I answered, perhaps too promptly _not_ to be accused of eavesdropping. But I didn’t care. I came back through the curtain and he welcomed me with a grateful smile. "The last big storm of winter brought you," I reminded him. "It’s been nearly _two_ since the raiders came."

Hercules was frowning in puzzlement. " _Nine_ months?" he echoed. "But - "

"Like you said," Iolaus shrugged. "Time shifts in the dreamworld." 

The frown didn’t go away. "That’s probably it. But even so – to be locked in sleep _that_ long - Iolaus, it must have been a nightmare."

_A nightmare ..._

I thought of the summer; of days when he’d come home from the sea with nets laden with fish slung over his shoulder, of the days he’d spent working in the settlement with his tanned skin gleaming in the sunlight and the eyes of every woman of the folk on him - and of days when the evenings were warm and the work was finished early. He had sat with me while I worked at my loom or my tablets, listening to my stories and laughing as if he had no cares in all the world.

 _Do **you** remember?_ I wondered, watching the thoughtful look that now creased that familiar face. _Is there still a place in your heart that is Elfir? Are you still my son, my Otterkin ...?_

"Some of it was," he considered slowly. "Feeling trapped inside myself - that was weird. And - " His hand lifted, his fingers clenching as he looked at the half healed scars on his wrist. "There were moments I’d rather _not_ remember ..."

_Suspended and in pain. Weeping his life’s blood onto the beach, in payment for our safety while cruel men made sport of his defiance._

" _But_ ," he went on, his lips curling into a generous smile, "I can’t really complain about the rest of it. We had a - pretty good summer, didn’t we, little mother?"

"We did," I answered softly. I still wasn’t sure how things stood between us; this easy tumble of words was offered up by the voice of a stranger. A stranger with my son’s eyes and my son’s smile. 

Jurgan chose that moment to return with the ale, my guesting tankard clasped formally between both his hands. I turned and took it from him, nodding my thanks, and then turned back, ready to speak the words and welcome my guest as I should have done. Two pairs of blue eyes were looking at me; one pair holding wary curiosity, the other pair threatening mischief.

"Little mother," came the question, filled with patient amusement. "What are you doing?"

"What I must," I replied. Had he forgotten the customs I had taught him? The way to treat a guest and how to acknowledge one who was not of the folk? He grinned at me, and my frown collapsed into confusion.

"Don’t be _silly_ ," he laughed. "Put that old thing away. Fetch the festival cups and put some decent mead into them. Herc's not a guest - he’s _family_."

"Family?" I echoed, glancing from one man to the other as I did so. _Looking for my friend_ , Hercules had said. My _friend_ , not _my brother_. There was a likeness between them both, but not so close as to think ...

"Oh yeah," that warm voice insisted, and the grin widened as he looked at the man beside him. "He is as kin to me, and all that is mine is his."

I caught back a breath. I had bound this man to me with an oath, spoken on a cold beach so many months before. I had made him my son, and taught him the ways of the folk; _now_ he echoed that oath, speaking formal words of binding, and knowing full well that that was what he did.

He threw me a look at the end of his little speech; a look I knew well enough. It was one of those slightly sheepish apologies - the sort that boldly acknowledged responsibility for his deeds and yet sought forgiveness if there had been offence. The look warmed my heart and answered all my fears. Whoever this man was, he was _still_ my son - and I knew that he loved me.

"Well," I said, handing Jurgan back the guesting tankard and smiling at the confusion on Hercules’ face. "In that case we will _have_ to open the cask of mead. But _you_ , my sweet Elfir, must drink no more than a cup or all my careful dosing will sour your stomach for sure." I threw Jurgan a nod of encouragement and he went with an eager step. The chances to share my mead on days other than the festival ones are rare indeed. The deed dispatched I turned back with an apology. "I have heard your true name, I should use it ... "

"Oh," wool clad shoulders shrugged, "don’t worry about it. You go on calling me whatever you want. I’ll answer to it. They had to find _something_ to call me," he told his friend. "Because I - er - couldn’t exactly remember my name ... Not to _tell_ anyone, anyway."

"It was how the stones named him," I explained. "Elfir. Kin to the otters that dance in the sea foam. It suited him."

"I can see why," Hercules laughed. He casually lifted the amulet from his neck and dropped it back into its owner’s lap before leaning his weight back against the wall and smiling at the two of us. "Looks like you fell into good hands, buddy."

Iolaus - who was still my Elfir and thereafter would always be so known among the folk - put out his hand and captured mine with a gentle touch. "The best," he breathed, and smiled at me.

So - for a time - I did not _lose_ a son, but gained another. I told Hercules in no uncertain terms that Elfir was not yet fit enough for travel, especially with the autumn turning and winter on its way. He simply smiled and agreed with me, content, it seemed, to wait until Iwas ready to loose the ties with which I had bound his friend. They talked until sundown, speaking of places I had never heard of and people I would never meet - and afterwards, when I insisted that _one_ of them, at least, needed his rest, Hercules sat with me for a spell, stirred my stewpot and heard the tale from my lips. He smiled and he laughed at most of it - all but the coming of the raiders and the cruel revenge they had wrought as the price of our people’s safety.

"Will they come again?" he asked, his eyes bleak and his lips narrowed in anger. I shrugged. 

"They usually do. At least once more before the winter truly comes."

He nodded thoughtfully and dipped his head to taste how the mutton was doing. "Then we’ll stay until winter," he said softly. "My uncle won’t fetch me back until I ask him to. And I always try and repay my debts."

I gave him a measured look. "You have been with us less than a day," I pointed out. "How could there be a debt between us?"

His smile was a knowing one. His eyes turned towards the curtained archway behind which one we both loved was sleeping. "You took him in. You fed him, cared for him - I owe you. Big time."

I laughed softly and shook my head. "You owe us nothing. He has already repaid his care a thousand fold. But I will not argue if you wish to stay a while. There is work to be done before the winter storms set in, and I am an old woman. Whose sons must earn their keep," I added, trying to sound stern about it. He laughed.

"I think we can do that." He wasn’t fooled; much as help with the work would be welcomed it was the gift he offered me that I cherished more. The rest of my year; my son beside me until the winter came again.

Or rather - my _sons_.

Hercules was true to his word; he helped with the work and the work was done almost before I could say what needed doing. He put his hands and his back to our needs with a will, and his strength served us as if ten men or more had come to dwell in my house. For a start he hauled Ogan’s deep water boat up onto the beach for its cleaning and caulking - _he_ hauled it, his two broad hands on the rope while Jurgan and his brothers laid the rollers beneath the keel. Then he went with me into the caverns behind the settlement and we brought out four of the huge cheese wheels that had been maturing in the darkness. That usually took four trips and three men to each wheel; _he_ did it in two, hefting a weight of cheese in each arm and bringing them down the storm steps with bold and confident strides. Children ran beside him, I remember, their eyes wide with wonder and awe – and his oath brother teased him for days afterwards, joking that he might have put down the cheeses, but their scent still lingered in his presence. The joke lasted until the day Hercules simply picked up his amused tormentor and tossed him, gently I should say, into the smoke house - where he was immediately inundated with a cascade of half smoked fish.

Another man might have read that as the starting point for a feud - but not my Elfir. He sat back in the deluge and howled with laughter, throwing fish at his friend - who promptly caught them and threw them back. It took great self control on my part to face them both with stern eyes; the fish was valuable and shouldn’t be wasted, but the sound of that laughter was worth far, far more to me.

Laughter.

My beach rang with it. With the sound of happy voices and the joy of being alive. I shall never know if it were the results of being loosed from the dream spell that had held him in thrall, the presence of his semi-divine friend, my own careful magics and herbs, or just his own restless energy and stubborn determination, but my son’s recovery was little short of miraculous. Not instant - far from it in fact - but every day saw him win back a little more of the strength and agility that had been beaten and ripped from his compact frame. Within a week of Hercules’s arrival he went from a few cautious steps away from his bedside to walking on the beach; by the end of the second he was running across it, and by the end of the _third_ he was turning cartwheels.

It was he who begged me to cast the stones and bestow a second naming on his newly adopted brother. I was loath to do so, because the stones are sacred things and not meant for play, but in the end his smile persuaded me. I cleared the table and I brought out the stones and I made magic for the son of a god - who was also _my_ son, in those precious days that we shared. _Ulthanar_ , the stones named him; eagle’s child. It seemed apt; the eagle is a noble bird indeed, and gifted with great strength and speed. It came easily to my lips and he answered to it with a vaguely embarrassed smile. 

They were grown men, those two heroes that had become my family, but once I had judged Elfir fit to leave his bed, they filled those autumn days as if they’d not yet spent all the coin of their youth. The work came first; every morning they would scour the shore, harvesting the kelp that lay washed to the tide line and gathering up any driftwood brought in from the sea. When it was needed they’d carry water down from the stream, filling my storage barrels. They would round up my sheep and help me milk the ewes, and one would pour the rich milk into the setting troughs while the other stirred in the mix that would make it curdle and turn it to cheese.

And after _that_ , they were free to roam as they wished. 

Some days they would stay to help me further; to pack the curd and seed it with salt, or perhaps to cut a newly woven length of cloth from my loom. On others they would head for the hills, exploring the land around the settlement. But mostly, they simply stayed on the beach. They helped Ogan and his sons re-caulk their boat. They helped lift the smaller craft up beyond the high tide line, and they helped fold and pack the nets for winter store. And they _fished_. A new kind of fishing for us; the folk have always hauled up the bounty of the sea in nets walked into the surf or dropped from the side of a boat. This was fishing done from the water’s edge with a line spaced with baited hooks and it caught a different kind of fish. Flat fish mostly, creatures with their eyes turned to the tops of their heads and their bodies mottled like stone. It was a sweet meat and very welcome on my table, but that wasn’t why they did it. This wasn’t _work._ This was play.

They challenged each other with it, competing for the quickest or the largest catch. They laughed and they joked as they cast their lines - and they fought the waves and the fish themselves for each prize, pitting their wits against the sea. I remember watching Elfir as he wrestled to bring in one particular catch, marveling at how he would let the line out a little to fool the fish and give him a chance to dance it closer to shore. This was a game of skill as well as strength and a cunning move brought home the prize more often than a strong tug on the line. Not that Ulthanar was any less skilled at it than his friend; he had a strong hand and a steady eye, and the eagle’s child made his catches with the patience that my otterkin lacked.

When they tired of fishing and the challenge of the sea they challenged each other instead. They competed for accuracy and distance, tossing stones into the sea or at cairns they raised against the cliff. They wrestled and they danced along the tide strand, conducting mock battles, most of which ended with Iolaus - my Elfir - lifted high over his oath brother’s head and the two of them laughing - one at the prospect of being tossed into the sea, the other with the tease of the threat. Hercules only carried it _out_ , once or twice. I realise now that - no matter how much _fun_ there might have been in those friendly conflicts - they possessed a serious purpose. They stretched strength and skill, honed reflex and speed, and bound the two of them together, reaffirming a bond of trust and confidence that had been forged by friendship and proven time and again in battle. They were not brothers in blood, these heroes, but they shared a brotherhood of the heart that nothing could shake or shatter. 

I watched them play, sheltered, for a while, from the destiny that the two of them shared, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that such men _did_ exist, in a world I had once thought wholly cruel. And I thanked the old gods that they had gifted an old woman with such wonderful sons – even if it were for so short a time.


	2. Chapter 2

I had six weeks to cherish my gift. On the second day of the seventh, Ogan arrived to announce that the seals had been seen, arriving on the birthing beach. It was time for the first hunt of the season - the one that would determine the fortune of the folk for the coming winter. I remember shivering as I drew my shawl around my shoulders; the first hunt challenged the big bull seals as they arrived to stake their claims, and men could be killed or crippled facing down a fighting seal. But we needed the meat and we needed the skins that the seal hunts brought us. Only a fool killed a seal cow before she’d given birth; the pups had coats that would keep our own children warm – not to mention bringing good gold from the traders.

Jurgan and his brothers had often boasted about their hunting skills over that long summer; hands clasped firmly on the speaking stick they had made wild claims about bulls twice the size of a man and how they had so _nearly_ come to vanquishing them. The other men of the folk had always smiled behind their beards and measured their skills by the size of the seals they _had_ brought home - but Elfir, _my_ Elfir, had never even seen a bull seal. I knew he’d listened to the tales with wide eyes, and on _that_ day I found he’d been making careful preparations to join the hunt when the time came. His eyes had sparkled at Ogan’s news and he’d vanished behind the smoke house to reappear with a pair of hunting spears in his hand. Not short handled, metal bladed spears like the one that Ogan himself carried. _Oh_ no - these were crafted the way a seal spear _should_ be, with delicate edged blades struck from flint and bound to the handle with strips of softened hide. They were long, too - a good arm’s length taller than the man who’d made them, and with a stout cross beam set half way along their length.

_Like a song_ , Jurgan had said. There are few warriors in the songs that the folk sing. But there _are_ hunters, bold and brave and given to reckless deeds. I wondered who’d been singing them to Elfir behind my back as I reached out and wrapped a firm hand around the two smooth shafts just beneath his own.

"No," I announced firmly, putting myself between him and the beach, ignoring Ogan’s startlement and Ulthanar’s wary frown. My son gave me a puzzled look.

"Little mother - " he began to say.

" _No_ ", I repeated firmly, interrupting his protest and setting my lips into stubborn lines. "This hunt is not for you. You will _not_ go."

His face creased into a look that mirrored my own; a quietly determined look that I had never seen before. "I’m fit, I’m healed, and I’m _awake_ ," he said, fixing me with a challenging eye. I couldn’t argue with any of that. My reasons had nothing to do with it anyway. "Little mother, I made these spears _especially_ for this hunt, and I’m going to find the biggest, toughest bull on that beach and - "

" _No_ ," I repeated again, glaring at him with my most withering glare. Most people quailed before that look – it was packed with magic and had grown more menacing as I grew older – but I was facing a far more stubborn heart than even _I_ knew. He didn’t even turn pale. If anything his eyes flashed with sudden fire.

"I’m going," he insisted, reaching to uncurl my fingers from the spears. "Actually," he added, offering one across to his friend, " _We’re_ going. Right, Herc?"

I glanced towards my other son. He was looking at me with thoughtful eyes. "Little mother," he said, in soft and reasonable tones. "Iolaus is one of the best hunters in the whole of Greece. _The_ best hunter – apart from my sister, that is. There’s no reason why - "

"There is _every_ reason," I interrupted, turning to give him that same look. He didn’t quail either, although I hadn’t expected him to. I sighed and let the magic go, berating myself for even trying to use it. "You have never hunted the fat bull seals as they lumber onto the land. Never seen them turn like lightning when least expected, or rise up only to smash down again like a wave. Twice now," I breathed, turning back to study Elfir’s beloved face, "I have knelt beside you, my hands dark with your blood while I muttered spells to knit broken bones and close raw wounds. I have called you back _twice_ from the deep journey. It will not be in my power to do so again. You should never have made the spears. Never have even _heard_ the tale of their making. These are not weapons for throwing, Otterkin! They are made to match the man to the seal, to hold the weight of it at bay while it rips its heart to pieces on the blade. Only the bravest and most skilled would even _think_ of using them. They are weapons of _death_ , and _that_ is what you court by making them."

Elfir stared at me for a moment then , much to my surprise, he laughed. " _That’s_ what worrying you? Gods," he chuckled, sharing his amusement with the man at his side, "she don’t know me very well, do she?"

"No," Ulthanar agreed, sounding equally amused.

"Little mother." Elfir addressed me with quiet affection and decided patience. He handed the other spear to his oath brother and caught up both of my hands in his. My old fingers curled around those agile hands, feeling the strength that lay within them. I looked up from that touch and found myself lost in eyes the colour and depth of the summer sky. "I may not have hunted _seals_ ," he was saying, "but – believe me – some of things that Herc and I _have_ hunted would make the worst bull on that beach look like – like - " He wrestled for a comparison, glancing at his friend for help. He wasn’t any; broad shoulders shrugged, the expression above them warmly amused. Elfir’s eyes rolled, offering a wordless acknowledgement that said _you’re a **lot** of help_ before they turned back to me. "Like - a new born lamb," he decided, earning himself a snort from Ogan and a look of pure scepticism from me. "The thing is," he ploughed on, not put off by either reaction, "when it comes to hunting I know what I’m doing. And as for these spears - " His glance towards the offending blades held a hint of pride, one I could not blame him for. They were beautifully crafted. "I’ve been using spears just like these to hunt down wild boar since I was knee high to my grandfather. And _they_ can be twice the size of a man and three times his weight, and when you get an old tusker on the end of your spear …" He broke off, probably realising that arguing along those lines was unlikely to sway me. He smiled instead, a gentle smile that turned my heart over. He _was_ going, no matter what I might say, no matter how I might protest. I had adopted a lost child – and he had become a man in front of my eyes, a stubborn, determined man with his own mind and his own destiny. _That_ was the day I knew he had outgrown my care. It was Elfir I had denied the right to the hunt. It was Iolaus, golden hunter, indomitable warrior, and true hero who had answered me.

That they were one and the same man was the joy and terror that held my heart.

"I know you’re worried," he said gently, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on my cheek. "Don’t be. We’ll be back before you even know we’re gone. And there’ll be seal in the stewpot tonight. You’ll see."

I feared for him - but I could no longer deny him. I pulled him into my arms and hugged those strong shoulders, offering a blessing as only a mother could. "Be bold," I whispered. "But be wary."

"You bet," he grinned, hugging me back before I could let go. "Hey," he laughed, reclaiming his spear from his brother’s hand, "the seals are waiting. Why are we?"

I caught at Ulthanar’s arm, holding him back as Ogan led the way down towards the waiting boats. He looked down at me with a quiet smile, the expressive lines of his face barely concealed behind the darkness of the beard that he had let grow in the manner of the folk.. "Watch over him," I begged softly, and the smile curved into a warm grin.

"I always do," he assured me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. _Not an easy task_ , I read there and found him a smile of my own.

"And watch _yourself_ ," I added, not unmindful of the place he had found in my heart. The grin got wider still.

"That’s _his_ job," he joked, and bent to bless me with a kiss of his own. "Twice, little mother? You’re catching me up ..." And he laughed softly and left, his long legs carrying him down the beach with easy confident strides.

I waited all that day, watching the clouds pattern the sky and the waves roll in with studied indifference. A long time before, in days when the son of my blood still played around my feet, I had spent another day waiting, scanning the sea for the returning boats. When the hunters had come home they had laid my true love at my feet, his body crushed and broken by the seal he had tried to claim. He did not live through the night; all my magic and my skill could not save him and he had left me to take the deep journey that each man makes only once in his life.

_Only once ..._

My soul had begun to wither that night. It had taken another hurt the day our son followed his father into the sea. It had become a shriveled thing, bitter and hardened against the cruelties of the world. 

And a gift from the sea had given it new life, had nourished it with fire and hope and undemanding love.

I watched and I waited. One by one the women of the folk came to join me, creeping across the cold beach and shivering under their shawls. This was our life, a cold harrowing relieved only by the brief promises of summer. We knew it well and we did not complain, for all it bowed our backs and hammered at our spirits. We are the folk and we survive. That is what we do best.

Merian Ogansdatta came to stand beside me, her dark hair escaping from beneath her drape and fluttering in the cold wind. Winter was nearly on us. Her father and her three brothers were on that hunt, but I knew it was not them she watched for. Like me she prayed for blue eyes and a golden smile. For him she was just one of many - but she had come to me, and _I_ knew the secret she had kept from him. Had kept from all the folk these four months past. She had stalked him and he had caught her at the Midsummer feast. When winter turned it would no longer be a secret. For now it was a silence between us; an unspoken truth to which we both clung, there in the cold wind and the dying day.

When the sun set, the boats came back.

And so did my heart.

He was first to leap to the shore, his hair a shimmer of gold that gleamed in the last light of the day. Another golden figure followed him; together they hauled the boat up out of the water and unloaded its cargo; broad shoulders fathered by a god hefted the weight of a huge bull seal, its tail dragging at his feet as he strode up the beach. I ran down to greet them, a mother among mothers and sisters and lovers, a tide of women that welcomed home the fortune for the coming year.

And what a fortune!

Six seals came out of those boats. Enough to feed the entire settlement and have meat left over. It was a good omen, but it paled into nothingness beside the welcome arms that lifted me clear off the beach in joyful greeting.

"What did I tell you, little mother?" my son laughed, putting me down at his brother’s feet. I looked up and my mouth fell open _. The biggest, **toughest** bull seal on the whole beach -_

It was fully eight feet long - and it must have weighed at least three times what I did. There was scarcely a mark on its sleek pelt, although there was blood painted across it - and blood painted over the two of them, a rich red rust that stained wool and leather and skin alike. Elfir was the worst; he looked as if he’d been bathing in it - with all his clothes on.

"Whose kill?" I asked, falling into step between them, Elfir’s hand under my arm and Ulthanar taking short careful steps to keep the balance of his burden. 

"His."

" _His._ "

They spoke in chorus and then laughed, sharing a glance of understanding and amusement at their synchronicity.

"We struck together, little mother," Ulthanar explained. "So we don’t know. But my spear broke, and _he_ took the whole weight on the other to stop it from reaching round to bite me. So - strictly speaking \- it’s his kill."

"Uhuh," Elfir denied. "All I did was hang on. Anyway – if you hadn’t been there to haul it off me afterwards I’d _still_ be lying flat on my back with dead seal for a blanket."

My blood turned cold. "It fell on you?" I asked, reaching pull him round, to take a closer look at the bloodstains on his face. "Are you hurt? Is anything broken?"

He giggled at my expression. "Sort of, hardly, and just my pride - in that order," he informed me with a rueful grin. "It was already dead. I propped it up with my spear and went to get a closer look - "

"And he slipped on the bloody stones, went flat on his back, caught the spear butt and - "

"Got a face full of dead wet seal for my pains," Elfir concluded, looking a little embarrassed over the incident. 

"Behold the mighty hunter," Ulthanar laughed, hefting the weight on his shoulder into a more comfortable spot and carrying it up the short sets of steps that front my house. "Now where do you want this?"

I waved him at the butchering slab at the back of the smoke house and turned to give my smaller son a more appraising look. Behind him Merian had put a foot to my steps and I discouraged her approach with a quick shake of my head. The truth she carried was a dangerous one; it would bind my otterkin’s heart and chain him to the folk beyond the time I had asked for. Such a binding would break him in two. His life was at his brother’s side, not with us, however much we cherished him – and I would not let that secret, so carefully kept, so wonderfully welcome, destroy the souls I had come to love so much.

She nodded agreement with my wisdom and turned away, letting me turn back to Elfir and immediate concerns. He endured my attention with a patient sigh, letting himself be drawn into the house and stripped of his blood stained clothing. There was indeed no major harm done, but his ribs were bruised and I put a little oil on to heat, scenting it with herbs and muttering a charm into its depths. Perhaps I was fussing overmuch, but even then I knew that he would not be with me much longer. And he had harrowed my heart; I felt I deserved a little indulgence for such pain.

Ulthanar came in from the butchery, his clothing now as bloody as his brother’s had been before him. I got him to strip too, stoking up the fire so that neither of them would take cold and carrying away the stained fabrics to where I could to set them to soak. When I came back they were both lounging in front of the fire discussing the hunt, the flicker of the flames reflecting off the gleam of naked skin. I caught back a soft breath of admiration; I had forgotten how beautiful they both were. Those bundles of wool and fur and warming fabric had hidden the taut shaping of muscle and the curve of sculptured bodies that lay beneath. I had gods sitting at my hearth; two of them, for all one was merely mortal and the other only half divine. 

In front of me – an old woman, wrinkled and bent, weathered by time and by life – they seemed unconcerned by their nakedness. I hooked the now simmering oil away from the fire, tipped in a little tallow fat to thicken it and knelt down to apply its healing warmth where it was needed most. Elfir leant back against the nearest support to let me get at the damage, hooked his hands behind his head and sighed a quietly martyred sigh. His brother chuckled softly.

"You’d pay for that in Athens," he remarked, reaching to drop another piece of wood on the fire. The words earned him a withering look.

"If I were in _Athens_ ," Elfir pointed out patiently, "I wouldn’t be stinking of dead seal, ache like Tarterus or be in _need_ of this kind of attention."

"Hardly," Ulthanar agreed, scratching at his beard where the blood had dried in it. "But I bet you’d still pay for it. Maybe I should suggest it to Salmoneus when we get back. A scented oil and massage service," he expounded, illustrating the idea with his hands. "Attentive women. No waiting. What do you think?"

My patient giggled, then winced because his ribs really _did_ hurt. "He’ll love it. Herc," he asked, sitting up a little to consider his friend with a thoughtful look. "You feeling homesick?"

My hand froze in its careful application and I had to force myself to continue before he noticed my reaction to his question. Ulthanar shrugged. "Not really," he admitted. "Matter of fact I like it here. It’s just that - this isn’t our world, Iolaus. There are people that need us back home. There’ll be warlords starting up new campaigns and slavers selling innocents to heartless masters - I’m worried about my brother too."

Elfir grinned. "Iphicles - or Ares?" he asked. He got a similar grin in reply.

"Both," was the prompt answer. "But Ares mostly. He won’t have missed the fact that I’ve not been around for a while. Nor will the rest of the gods. I hate to say it but - "

"It’s time we went back to work, right?" The question was soft; a strong hand reached to curl around mine where it sat, frozen in mid stroke against the warmth of soft skin.

"Well -" Ulthanar sighed, wrapping his long arms around himself and staring pensively into the flames. "Time _I_ did, in any case. You could stay here if you wanted too. You’ve found a home here - a family - "

" _You’re_ my family, Herc." The pressure on my hand was gentle; he knew what he had to say would wound me, but he had to say it anyway. "Besides, you were right. People need _us_ back home." His eyes turned briefly towards me and I saw the regret that lay within them. "I can’t live in a dream forever. No matter how good the dream might be. You need me, Herc. You need me to watch your back and drag you off to festivals and get myself into trouble so that you can come charging to the rescue the way you always do. Which I _don’t_ always need, I’ll have you know - "

"I know." His brother’s expression had a sorrowed edge. "You’d be safe it you stayed here."

"Safe?" Elfir snorted disbelief. "Safe from winter storms and wild seals? Safe from ships full of angry raiders? I’d not last another season in this place before my deeds got me killed one way or the other. And that would break our little mother’s heart. Yours too," he added shrewdly. "Face it, Hercules, you’re stuck with me, like it or not."

Ulthanar, who was and always would be the son of Zeus and so cursed with a destiny, smiled a haunted smile. One that slowly curled into genuine and heartfelt pleasure. "I suppose so," he acknowledged softly. "Thanks," he added with decided gratitude, almost under his breath. Elfir giggled again - and then _winced_ again, the look that chased across his face a mixture of chagrin and annoyance.

"Damn it," he complained, "Why, by all the gods, did I have to walk under that _seal?_ "

I left them to their laughter and their plans and went to weep, silently, over blood tainted water and the weight of damp wool. The year was turning towards its end, and my sons were going to leave me before the season was out. It was for myself I wept, not for them. For the empty echo that the house would become, for the long days that would not have them in it, and for the longer years in which I would have nothing but memories to sustain me. I knew they had to go. I’d always known that, deep in my heart. Nor would I have given up the year just gone, not even to erase the pain of their leaving me. Memories are precious things. I would treasure each bright jewel of a day, keeping it safe within my heart. 

When the washing was done, so was all my weeping. I had resolved to cherish each moment I had left, to laugh and to enjoy all that my sons had left to give me. Besides - the hunt had been a success. And a successful hunt always spelled a wild festival. I put on my finest shawl, curved a smile onto my face, chivied both my sons into their best clothing - and took them to the gathering.

It was a night to remember for many reasons. Ogan got drunk and fell off his stool trying to persuade young Terrel that an old man’s bed might be worth sharing. Farashell announced her choosing, which surprised nobody but brought a blush of embarrassed pleasure to Horgeth’s face when he finally realised she was talking about _him_. And when they passed the speaking stick my Elfir did _not_ refuse it as he’d always done before. He took it with a mischievous smile and made the boldest boast of the evening \- so _far_ that was.

"I have been _under -_ " and the whole of the gathered folk laughed because they knew what was coming next, "- the biggest bull seal on the beach today. And my brother and I brought it home," he added, grinning at Ulthanar and tossing him the staff with a flourish. The son of Zeus was the tallest among us; he sat with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him because the benches were too low for his lanky frame, but he caught the staff easily enough and frowned at it with a thoughtful frown.

I held my breath.

I knew he’d been watching the game; I’d no doubt that Elfir had explained it to him. How each man would boast and pass the staff if there was no challenge to his claim. And how the next would need to top the previous bravado, or else decline the stick and pass it on. Would he pass? I knew him to be a modest man, not given to over praising himself. But this was festival - and a man’s standing among the folk was partly determined by how well he played this game. He knew - because I had told him – that there were many in the gathering who had laughed at Elfir in the past, taunting and teasing his stumbling words. The taunting had ceased after the raiders came, but they still watched to see him fail. _Perhaps_ , I saw him thinking, _that first boast was enough -_

It wasn’t. I _knew_ it wasn’t. One boast, however big the seal, would not buy the respect my son’s deserved.

Ulthanar – whose true name was Hercules, and who had the strength of a god but the heart of a man - looked up. A silence had fallen on the crowd. A pair of summer blue eyes were watching him with an almost pleading expectation, while challenging stares filled the firelit corners of the room. And he rose to the challenge with a confident smile.

"I was once swallowed whole by a sea monster whose stomach was bigger than this room," he announced in mild tones. "I squeezed its heart until it burst - and then I was able to escape."

The silence became a stunned one. It was an _outrageous_ claim. I saw Jurgan open his mouth to challenge it - only to close it again. Everyone could see that there was no lie on the speaker’s face. To _him_ it wasn’t even a boast. Just a statement of fact.

_Eagle’s child_ , I smiled to myself. _One who flies higher than all the rest._ The stones do not lie.

He offered the staff on; one by one the men refused it, sharing doubtful looks and muttering among themselves. He was about to put it down and so end the game when a hand shot out in a demanding gesture. Elfir was standing in front of him like a defiant bantam cock, his smile full of recklessness while he waited to take his turn.

The look that his oath brother gave him was a measured one; it was followed by a warm smile and the staff itself, placed into the outstretched hand with amused confidence.

_He can’t top that_ , my heart protested, aching a little that he should even try. _Oh, Elfir …_

"I have been a baby sitter for the youngest child of the Mother of all Monsters," he stated boldly. "And earned myself a kiss from her own sweet lips," he added, an afterthought delivered with a cheeky grin. Ulthanar laughed and took back the staff.

"That’s _nothing_ ," he decided, getting into the game with relish. " _I_ was one of the two warriors that freed Prometheus from his chains and brought his gifts back into the world."

"Hey - no fair," his brother pouted. " _I_ was on that expedition too, you know."

"Well, okay," came the immediate agreement. "One of the _four_ warriors that freed Prometheus." The tall man grinned, holding out the staff. "Your turn."

There was more like that. Claim after claim, each more outlandish than the last. They competed with their own history, the staff going back and forth between them while jaws dropped open and eyes went _very_ wide. No-one challenged. No-one _dared._

And I wondered which of them would win - the child born of a god, or the mortal who had found his destiny at his side.

Finally, Hercules played his trump card. Straight out and with an honesty of heart, he made his next claim a clear and perfect demonstration of his regard for the man I had made my son. "I," he offered softly, speaking clear enough for all to hear but speaking _only_ to his partner all the same, "have gone down into the underworld, bargained with the Lord of that domain - and returned my brother’s soul to the living world after his unjust death."

He held out the staff, but he kept his hand on it, his eyes fixed on the figure in front of him. Silence had fallen in the gathering hall. _Total_ silence. Iolaus stared back, his lips working silently as he considered and then discarded options with which to match that incredible statement. I thought he was going to accede victory. And then he smiled and put his hand to the polished shaft, right beside the curled fingers that held it out to him.

"I," he said, delivering the words with the same soft intensity that his oath brother had used, "have followed a vengeful goddess back through time in order to protect a mother and her unborn son. Because that child would one day make a difference to the world that held him. And because he is like a brother to me - and my life would be nothing without him it."

Their eyes met across the staff, blue to blue, a look that locked in place and held time suspended between them. Nobody moved. Nobody so much as _breathed_.

Until Hercules laughed, shattering the moment into a thousand shards of unspoken emotion. Emotion that had no _need_ to be spoken, because those two statements had said everything that needed to be said. "Guess we’re even then," he shrugged.

"Guess so," the brother of his heart shrugged back. "You want another drink?"

"Sure." 

And that was what they did, handing the speaking staff back to Ogan, who accepted it gingerly and stared at it as if he expected it to be hot. It wasn’t - but no-one ever used _that_ staff again. He went out before the next gathering and cut a new one, setting the original in a place of honour high in the gathering hall.

It was on the following day that the raiders came back.

Two ships loomed out of the late autumn fog, high prowed ships that glided towards the beach like silent ghosts, their oars muffled and their sails hanging limply from their tall masts. There was barely time to sound the alarm before the beach was filled with armed men. My sons had left for their usual morning scavenging. I was working in the smoke house and found myself trapped there, watching as the settlement swirled into panic and the air was filled with frightened cries.

Everything folded down into total confusion. Grim eyed warriors stalked across the beach herding sheep and women with equal disregard. I saw Ogan struck down as he tried to protect his daughter; the raider raised his sword for a killing blow - and a wild war whoop cut through the air, followed immediately by a golden haired whirlwind as Elfir sprinted out of the mist and intercepted the descending sword arm.

"Catch!" I heard him call, pulling the startled raider off his feet and tumbling him towards the broad shouldered figure that had been at his heels. Ulthanar did more than just _catch_ \- he caught, he lifted and he _threw_ , sending the man flailing through the air and knocking down half a dozen of his fellows.

And that was just the start of it.

Elfir pulled Ogan to his feet and sent him and Merian stumbling in my direction. I beckoned them in to the suspect shelter of my smoke house and we stood there and watched while two men - and _only_ two men \- taught the raiders a lesson they would never forget.

They were everywhere, a brilliant dance of dazzling skill and sheer power that lifted my heart into my mouth and kept it there all through the conflict. Alone - and not fully in his wits - Elfir had held off an entire shipload until their numbers had overwhelmed him. Now, with his partner at his side and his true speed and skill at his fingertips, he more than demonstrated the truth of all that boasting the night before. The fight was not an easy one; they faced incredible odds and men more than prepared to kill them both, but they had a number of advantages and they used them to full effect.

The first was simple surprise. The raiders never expected the folk to offer more than a token defense; before, they’d maybe killed one or two of us and left the rest to seethe with helplessness while they seized whatever they wanted. It took them a little while to realise that the settlement was actually defended, and that was to cost them dearly.

The second advantage was their fighting style. I didn’t know much about conflict, but I’d always thought men fought with sword or spear, defending themselves with shields and armour. The raiders certainly seemed to think that was the way of things. Neither of my sons were armoured – in fact, _both_ had stripped away an encumbering layer, losing the thick oiled wool jumpers I had gifted them to keep out the cold. One was clad in his soft gold leather jerkin, the other in an equally soft grey sealskin vest, neither of which had been designed to keep sword blades at bay. Hercules - my Ulthanar, the eagle’s child - didn’t really bother with weapons. He strode into combat, using his broad hands to strike and disable, sometimes picking up an adversary and using _him_ as both shield and weapon, sometimes dodging blows with easy feints and moves, and sometimes vaulting a startled shoulder to strike down another opponent with a swift kick. Iolaus - my Elfir, my Otterkin - fought with _everything._ Hands, feet, elbows, knees, borrowed swords, discarded sheilds, snatched up polehooks, grabbed nets, his best friend’s fist, anything and everything that came within reach. He _danced_ through the melee, tumbling between legs and scrambling up onto shoulders, twisting and spinning like the otter that the stones had named him and dealing devastation as he went. 

And their third advantage was the way they fought _together._ They moved almost as one creature, nearly always aware of where the other was in the fight. When one was in trouble the other moved in to help. They exchanged opponents, watched each other’s backs and even threw each other around whenever the need arose. It was hard to follow at first - and I could barely breath for terror, watching as swords flashed around them in a dance of death. After a while though I began to see some pattern in their actions \- and though I could not lose the tight band of fear that had clamped itself around my heart, I began to think that maybe - just _maybe_ \- I was not about to see my sons cut down and slaughtered before my eyes.

The beach rang with war cries; with the raiders’ throaty challenges and Elfir’s wild whoops of reply. At the beginning of the fight the morning mist helped our cause; it swirled around creating shadows and illusions, and there were raiders who struck at nothingness while one agile figure darted away and the son of a god loomed out of nowhere on the other side of them. Later the mist began to clear and the odds evened out a little. I saw my sons take blows; Ulthanar staggering back, only to wipe a broad hand across his bloodied lip and return to the conflict with stern eyed determination; Elfir knocked down to the ground, but rolling away before the following blade could cut the beach where he’d been lying. I winced at each painful contact, clutching Merian’s trembling shoulders as she knelt beside me and sought refuge in the tumbled layers of my skirts. They were only _two_ \- and the raiders were so many.

_So **many** …_

My heart recalled the bloody, bleeding mess that had been waiting for me the last time the raiders came. Tears filled my eyes; I remembered the gaping holes in wrists and ankles that my magic had barely been able to heal - and my soul cried out for the ending to be swift, for the gods to take these golden heroes before their enemies did. I did not want them to die - but nor did I want them to fall and be taken. 

My fears were not unfounded - the raiders had always been cruel and arrogant men who treated defiance as an insolence in need of punishment - but that day the terrors that my heart painted were to prove unwarranted. The chaos of the conflict, the swirling melee, the clash of steel and the impact of flesh on flesh, slowly began to resolve itself into more directed order. Unconscious bodies began to litter the beach. Groaning men dangled from netting racks or lay dazed on stone clad roofs. Others could be seen crawling away; some towards the beached boats, other towards the rise of the cliffs and some just round and round in circles.

The fight narrowed down, the focus of the action spiraling to a final stand right in front of the steps to my house. Ogan, Merian and I huddled in the doorway to the smoke house, watching as events played out in front of us.

There were no more than ten or twelve raiders left by then; at least two of them were the captains of the expedition, golden torcs encircling their necks and their bodies weighted with the gleam of metal scales. One carried an axe, the other a two handed sword. They ordered their men to close in and form a circle, a ring of determined steel into which they stepped with arrogant confidence.

My sons took up a stance at the centre of that arena; they stood back to back, both of them breathing a little heavily and both marked by the fury of the conflict. Ulthanar’s right arm was cut, high up, just below the shoulder. His jerkin was torn and there was blood trickling from another slice across his left cheek. Elfir was favouring his left leg, trying to avoid putting too much weight on it; his right eye was bloodied and swollen, and his lip was bleeding. There was also a wild grin painted across his face, a distinct contrast to the stern expression that creased his partner’s features. None of their wounds seemed to be threatening ones, but they spoke to me of a thousand unseen bruises, of blows taken and not yet felt in the heat of the battle.

And the challenge that they faced was not over yet.

Two against two: fair odds in a fair fight, except that the armed men were still fresh, their strength held back from the battle, and the two they faced had spent nearly an hour in close combat. I had no doubt the arrogant princelings that advanced towards our determined defenders were certain of their victory; they boasted of it as they closed the distance, hurling taunting words and offering insults rather than threats.

"Hey, you brute," the man with the sword in his hand sneered, addressing the taller of my sons with disdain. "Get back to your ox-yoke. Stick to ploughing fields. Leave battle to _real_ warriors. Men who know what to do with a sword."

"Men like you?" Ulthanar questioned quietly. "I don’t think so."

"You need a lesson in manners," the axe wielder chipped in, hefting his weapon with menace. "You – and that stunted getling beside you. Your brother’s got rocks between his ears, short stuff. What’s _your_ excuse? Not enough room in that little head for any sense?"

"Herc," Elfir growled, "that one’s _mine._ Okay?"

"Okay," his partner answered. "Remember Curiandra?"

Even at that distance I saw Elfir’s eyes roll. "How could I forget? On three?"

Ulthanar nodded. "Three," he said, just as a sword swung towards him and an axe whistled in from the other side.

He dipped back, dropping down onto one knee and reaching behind him as he went. Elfir half matched the gesture, his left arm hooking over his partner’s extended arm as both legs bent and his body dropped so that their shoulders touched. I caught back a gasp as the sword blade swooshed harmlessly over both their heads - and then Hercules stood up again. It was a smoothly controlled and powerful motion; it pulled the smaller man up and over his right shoulder in one easy acrobatic leap. Iolaus’ feet flew out as he twisted over, knocking the advancing axeman flying. That was startling enough \- but the trick didn’t end there. The tumbling body went on moving and the human pivot that supported it transferred the weight from one arm to the other; Hercules swung his partner round in front of him and mirrored the maneuver on his left side. The swordsman went down with exactly the same blow delivered from the other direction - and Iolaus landed back on his feet, right back where he started from.

He bounced once, let out a wild whoop of exhilaration, and leaped sideways with a spin, slamming a hard kick into the axeman’s chest as he tried to stand up. He went down a second time, and then a third as his agile attacker followed through with a doubled blow from the same foot.

On the other side of the arena the swordsman found himself being lifted bodily from the ground. Broad hands planted themselves at chest and stomach and then began to pass the man’s weight between them, spinning their victim round and round as it he were no more than a barrel lid. The spin picked up momentum; Hercules shifted his grip from chest down to ankle, swinging the armoured warrior round his head. 

Then he let go.

The raider twisted away with a terrified cry, his body still spinning. He flew in a wide arc, his flailing pinwheel knocking down the men that defined the circle of menacing steel. Bodies collapsed to the beach. None of them got up again.

Ulthanar waited until the armoured man landed, nodding quiet satisfaction as the figure skidded over the cold stones and ended in a crumpled heap at the foot of my steps. Then he turned and watched while Elfir systematically pummeled the axeman into a similar heap, never giving him a chance to catch his breath or even lift himself any higher than one knee.

"You finished?" the son of Zeus asked conversationally.

"Nearly," his oath brother replied with a breathless gasp - and landed one more directed blow, delivering it with an athletic spin and a kick that was too fast to see. The axeman went down for the last time, his eyes rolling up into his skull and his body going utterly limp. " _Now_ , I’m finished," Elfir concluded, panting for breath and grinning at his company. He glanced around and the grin grew a little wider. "Hey - so are they!"

"Yeah," Ulthanar agreed thoughtfully. "For now at least."

It was clear that the battle was over. The beach was littered with battered bodies and discarded weapons. Still, the battle was not the war and my heart sank as I took in the aftermath of the conflict. We can be a stern people when need demands; I have seen mothers leave a squalling infant on the edge of the cliff and walk away, letting the child’s fate be determined by the gods. But we are not cold blooded, and we are _not_ murderers. And we had a problem.

The raiders had met opposition - and returned in force. _This_ time they had been driven back, but our heaven sent guardians had a destiny that lay elsewhere in the world, and once they were gone we would be left defenceless again. If we spilt raider’s blood now that they were defeated and helpless, then we would be no better than _they_ were - but if we let them go free, it would be to court our own deaths, to offer up our throats to the anger of their retribution.

I watched the thought - the _understanding_ of that - sit heavily on Ulthanar’s brow as he considered the results of his handiwork. **_Now_** _what do I do?_ his expression said. I wished I had words to answer him.

Elfir’s thoughts were more immediate - and endearingly welcome after the traumas of the attack. He was frowning at the sight of the folk, creeping from their hiding places to stare at the unexpected outcome of the raid. The frown became a crease of decided concern. "Little mother." The thought came to him with more than a hint of sudden panic. He glanced around in agitation, and his alarm only ended when he saw me step out of the smokehouse. "Thank the gods," he breathed with a look of decided relief and started to limp up the steps towards me.

I met him halfway down, running to meet him like a mother hen reunited with a lost chick. He laughed as I threw my arms around him, hugging me back with gentle affection. "Don’t tell me," he giggled, grinning at Merian over my head - which was pressed against the softness of seal skin, listening to the wild pound of his heart, "We had you worried for a while there."

"You had me worried the _entire_ while," I scolded, pushing out to arms length and studying him with a mother’s frown. The soft skin around his right eye was turning black and his bottom lip was swollen and puffy behind his beard. But his smile was the most wonderful thing in the world to see. "Are you both _mad_? You could have been killed. Or worse," I added, turning his hand in mine and lifting his wrist towards me. I pressed old lips to the scars that lay there and his hand curled to cup my cheek with gentle fingers.

"Hey," he murmured softly. "This is what Herc and I _do_ , little mother. It’s just - easier when I’m awake - "

I knew that. I had watched them both and seen the skill and experience they had employed; even the wild joy _he_ felt in battle, the sheer exhilaration that had possessed him. It hadn’t been a killing joy, not the fey madness that could seize a man and turning him into a savage dispenser of slaughter; his elation had sprung from the challenge of the fight, the need to stretch speed and skill, to risk _everything_ and still win through. In some ways he had been a joy to watch – but he was my _son_ , and I had felt every blow he’d taken.

And I’d never seen either of them fight before; for all their wild boasting, how could I have known that two men could face such overwhelming odds and still win through? 

"Well," I pointed out, trying to sound arch and look stern - when all I really wanted to do was weep tears of relief, "awake or not, you’ve added ten years to this gray head of mine today. _Look_ at you. Black and blue from head to foot - and limping, too. _Don’t_ deny it," I went on hastily, seeing his mouth open to do just that, " _I_ saw you."

"It’s nothing, little mother," he said patiently. "Really. Now, _Herc_ is bleeding -" 

"And I’ll tell him what I think of _that_ when I get to it," I shot back. "This is about _you_ , and _you_ take too many risks."

"Yes, little mother," he agreed just as patiently, sharing a look of martyred forbearance with Merian who’d emerged from the smokehouse with her father. She giggled and I threw her an irritated glare. 

"Don’t encourage him," I growled. "It’s all very well being a hero and saving the day, but just _what_ are we going to do with all these raiders now you’ve taught them a lesson? Had you thought of that? No - I didn’t think so."

"Mother," he tried to interrupt, but I was well into my stride, using those angry words to express the terror I had felt watching the battle rage across my beach. I loved this man – loved _both_ of them, with a mother’s heart and a mother’s certainty. Had I known how skilled they were, how often they had faced similar odds, then I might have observed that fight with a far more forgiving eye. But I _hadn’t_ known - and I had died a thousand deaths, watching the two of them risk their lives over and over again.

"Don’t you _mother_ me, Elfir, Otterkin, Iolaus of Greece," I declared, the words tumbling out of me like spring melt released by the first sun of the season. "Do you have _any_ idea how frightened I was today? I’ve watched raiders come and go every summer since before you were born, and they always came and then they _went_ , and you - _you_ and that stubborn brother of yours have to race in and stop them, and risk your lives defending us, and all they probably wanted was a few sheep and maybe a child or two and - I don’t care how many mothers might have been left weeping, because I have already wept all the tears I had to spare over the child I lost, and I couldn’t bear it if they killed you _too_ \- "

"Mother - _Mother_ ," he insisted, stepping forward and wrapping me in a determined bear hug, gathering me in with those strong arms until I ran out of breath and words all at the same time. "That’s _enough_ , okay? _I’m_ a little bruised, Herc’s a little battered and _nobody_ has lost a child today. Or any sheep either," he added, mindful of how important the flocks were to the folk. "Like I said, it’s what we _do_ \- and as for what we do with them now - " He turned me round, so that I was looking out at the beach and the long low lines of the raider’s ships. Ulthanar was stalking across the strand, picking up unconscious men two at a time and carrying them back to their vessels as if they weighed less than a bale of straw. He tossed each one over a bulwark, none too gently, and then went back for the next. "I think Hercules has an idea."

It didn’t take my son long to load those ships; I think that Elfir might have gone to help had I not clung to him with determined arms. Some of that was selfishness, but I knew he was tired, and that the effort of battle was beginning to catch up with him. I would not have begrudged his brother his assistance, but to my mind the price of it would have been too high. For all his bold bravado, my Otterkin was only mortal; the child of a god stalked our beach that day, drawing on his gift of divine strength and summoning a seemingly inexhaustible energy with it. 

_He’ll pay for that later_ , I remember thinking as I watched him number our enemies and deposit them back in their long prowed vessels. Elfir was _already_ paying the price of our defense. He was trembling a little and I made him sit down on the steps, crouching down beside him to run my hands over his damaged leg. It wasn’t a serious injury - little more than pulled muscle and bruised bone, but it gave me something to do while he watched his brother clear the debris of their conflict from the beach. It also meant he wasn’t exacerbating the damage by putting his weight on it; for all his dismissive reluctance he flashed me a grateful smile as I added the heat of whispered magic to my touch.

"Don’t fuss, little mother," he half protested, although without any force behind his complaint. His hand curled to brush my cheek. "If you wanna do something for me, you _could_ fetch out some of your ale. My throat thinks it’s been cut - " 

Hard work leads to thirsty tongues. _Both_ of them would be downing mugfuls of my dark beer before the day was through. Merian ran to match his request almost before I had time to turn round. I frowned a little at her as she vanished into my house; such eagerness was unseemly when there had been no talk of choosing - and there would _be_ no talk, however much she yearned for it. The year was nearly ended, and he would go before the winter was out. It was a foolish yearning anyway; she had had what she _wanted_ from him, and that without obtaining fickle promises. They had barely said a word to each other in all the time he had been here - the first part of it because he _couldn’t_ , and the second because she had no place in his thoughts beyond any of those eager women that had shared his warmth at a festival. Lidian for one. Justil for another. 

Of course, if he had _known -_

Ulthanar finished his determined task, leaving the two captains until last; he picked both of them up, dunked them unceremoniously into a handy barrel of ice caked water to rouse them from their stupor, and frog marched them down to the sea’s edge. They struggled a little, but their hearts weren’t in it over much. They cursed him and they cursed _us_ with vitriol, making promises about what they’d do on their return. "With a thousand men if we need it," one of them boasted.

Their captor let them rant, and just dropped them into the surf once he reached it

"All right," he said sternly. "Time for you to listen –and listen _hard_ , because I’m not going to be responsible for the consequences if you don’t get the message."

His voice rang out clearly above the soft whisper of the sea; he meant for everyone to hear what he said, and that included the dazed warriors currently stirring in the bilges of the raider ships.

"This place," he announced with firm authority, "is under _my_ protection. I and my - brother - " His glance back up the beach said a lot of things, and earned him a dazzling grin from the man concerned, "have taught you a lesson today, and we have no intention of letting you forget it. You’re busy thinking - they won’t be here forever. And you’d be right. But I’m not going to leave these people unguarded, and _you_ are not going to come back. _Ever._ Understand?"

Two men sneered at him. "What ya going to do?" the taller of the two laughed. "Hang up a warning bell?"

"No," Ulthanar replied matter of factly. "I’m going to ask my uncle to watch the place for me."

"Oh - " the axeman mocked. "His _uncle_. I’m really scared now."

"He will be," Elfir confided, leaning towards me with conspiratorial glee. "Watch this. It’s gonna be _good._ "

I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I was to see soon enough. Hercules left the two men sitting half in, half out of the water and strode forward until he was immersed up to his waist. He put his shoulders back and took a deep breath. " _Poseidon!_ " he bellowed, the sound of that call echoing and re-echoing across out cliffs. " ** _Poseidon!_** "

The bay was calm that day, a soft stir of water across which the mist had crept and the raider’s ships had followed. Slow waves rolled in, washing around leather clad legs before they broke with a pluther of foam onto the beach. The sound of the summoning died away, leaving behind it a hush of expectation. _All_ sound died away; the cry of the gulls became a distant memory, the murmur of the sea whispered into nothingness. Elfir’s hand reached to curl over mine as I crouched beside him, my breath caught in my throat and my heart held in suspension. There was a knowing grin behind his beard and his eyes were firmly fixed on the figure of his brother, standing in the surf. Something was coming. Something that stirred the magic in the air, that spoke of power and whispered of eternity. _Something ..._

And then the sea stood up and spoke, with a voice like quiet thunder.

"You called?"

"Yes," Ulthanar acknowledged, tilting his head back to meet the eyes of the figure that now towered over him. The sea god was a vast wave, a shape sculptured out of glistening water and crowned with a restless surf. He dominated the bay, casting a cold shadow over the whole of the settlement. Somewhere behind me I heard a crash as a pottery mug hit stone; I remember it even now – the way Elfir glanced back, his face creasing into amused exasperation as he recognised that his requested ale had become an involuntary libation. I remember it because I could _not_ look. My eyes were fixed on the presence of a god, my whole body trembling as I saw and heard the power of the sea made manifest.

We are a sea people: we live at the edge of its dominion, harvest its gifts and accept its challenges. It is the sea that sends us the seals. The sea to which we offer up our dead. It had been the sea that had gifted me with a son, that cold winter day which I will treasure in my heart forever.

And now I knew, deep in my heart, with a mother’s certainty, that it was the sea that had brought me my second son - and that same sea which would soon take both of them from me again. 

_**Too**_ _soon ..._

"You ready to go home?" The voice was deep - as deep as the oceans, spoken from the bottom of the abyss. 

"Not quite. There’s something I need you to do for me first."

" _Another_ favour? Don’t presume too much, son of Zeus. I have better things to do than babysit my brother’s children." The vast head turned, sea filled eyes looking down at where I crouched. I shrank down, feeling that gaze sweep over me. This was _my_ god, and before him I was nothing. Less than nothing. I felt Elfir’s hand tighten around mine - a squeeze of reassurance, not fear - and then he climbed to his feet, meeting that searching gaze with determined eyes. 

Blue eyes.

The sea smiled. "I see you found your friend."

"Yeah," Hercules agreed. "I found him safe and well \- " Not quite the truth, but close enough to it. "- thanks to these good people. They’re a simple folk, Lord Poseidon. They’re not warriors. Just fishermen."

"I know." The god reached down and stirred the surface of the bay; a startled shoal of fish swam up his arm and swirled through the waters that made up his muscled chest. "So?"

"So they don’t deserve to be invaded. They don’t deserve to have their children and their livestock taken from them. They deserve a chance to live in peace. All I want is for you to give them some protection. To find some way to stop raiders like these - " and Ulthanar’s hand went out, indicating the ships and the men that cowered inside them, "- coming ashore like a pack of wolves."

"They _are_ wolves," the ocean said, sounding vaguely amused. "The wolves of the sea. Why should I set a shepherd to watch your precious flock, nephew? Can’t they learn to defend themselves? "

"They shouldn’t _need_ to," Ulthanar called back tightly. "They respect and honour the sea. Isn’t the life _that_ gives them challenging enough? They fight winter storms and sea gales. They hunt in your domain for the meagre harvest it _might_ give up - and they pay every price the sea demands without complaint. What honour and respect do _these_ men give you?" His hand swept back to indicate the princlings who knelt in abject terror at the edge of the surf. "A few trinkets of gold once a year? A sacrifical lamb or two to earn your favour with the winds? The folk offer you their _souls!_ Isn’t that enough?"

"Unto the sea we offer our hearts. Through the waters of the world we take the deep journey." Beside me Elfir began to repeat the words of our most powerful litany, his voice weaving them with quiet determination. "May our souls sing forever in the winds of the world. May we swim with the seal and ride the restless waves for all time. Let us come home. Let us be free."

"For the waters of the world are our life’s blood, and the salt that scours the sand is the seed that bears our children." I picked up the chant, adding my querulous voice to the strength that echoed in his. "We are born in the waters and to the waters we return. They are father to us and mother; they give us life and they take it away." Our combined voices were barely above a whisper, but somehow the words resonated across the entire settlement. Other lips took up the chant, adding depth and feeling to the ritual hymn. Hercules turned to stare at folk gathered behind him, and his expression was a startled one. He’d never heard the passing chant, since no-one among us had died while he had shared out lives. But Elfir had heard it; had witnessed it not once, but six times in that long year. I had so nearly sung it for _him_ \- and now he offered it up to the god who held the power of the sea in the palm of his hand. It was not a plea he shaped to back his brother’s request, but a challenge \- and it was a wreaking of magic that he made with it, adopted child of the folk, ignorant of our mysteries but speaking from the depths of his heart.

"The beating of our hearts is in the coming and going of the tides. The breath we take is in the whisper of the wind across the surface of the sea."

The magic of the folk is in our words. They entangle our lives, binding us with oath and promise, shaping us with subtle forces that can be neither denied or ignored. When we choose, we speak as one people - and it was thus we spoke _that_ day, asking for nothing other than a true measure of our worth.

"Take our blessing. In the arms of the ocean there is peace. In the deep places there is no fear. Let us come home. Let us be free."

As the chant ended a silence fell. A breathless silence in which not even the murmur of the surf could be heard. 

And - finally - the ocean that was also a god bowed his head, almost as if in shame.

"Very well," he murmured. "I will find a shepherd to watch this flock. While even _one_ of them remains in this place, this place will be protected. And _you_ ," he added, lifting his head to fix his nephew with a stern gaze. "When I return, _you_ are going home. Before you stir up any more trouble. Understand?" 

"Absolutely," Hercules affirmed - and then leapt backwards as the image of the god collapsed, sending a surge of water up onto the beach. The raider’s ships were lifted up by it, dragged back into the bay and wallowing in the sudden tumble of disordered waves. The two princlings both gave a cry of alarm and hurtled into the surf, wading waist deep and deeper as they fought to reach their respective vessels. For a moment or two it looked as if neither of them would make it - until my son waded after them and gave them a hand, plucking them out of the tug of the waves and tossing them in the relevant direction.

"And don’t come back!" Elfir called after them, laughing at their panicked predicament. Ulthanar turned to flash him a brief look of reproach that quickly became a matching grin of amusement. He was laughing softly as he waded back onto the beach, shaking the excess water from his hair. His long strides quickly covered the distance between us - and then both my sons were standing beside me, the taller of the two bending to help me to my feet while his brother giggled at his sodden state.

"You’ve got seaweed in your beard," Elfir observed matter of factly.

"Mmm," came the grunt of acknowledgement, a broad hand reaching the brush the offending object away. Its owner’s eyes were busy watching the ships depart.

"There’s a starfish in your vest."

"Okay. Thanks." That too was hooked out and thrown away with an abstracted hand. 

"And limpets on your butt."

"What?" Ulthanar spun, making a valiant effort to check _that_ possibility before realising that he was being teased. " _Iolaus_ ," he groaned, his eyes rolled skywards and Elfir collapsed into a howl of laughter at his expression. I tried to hide a laugh of my own behind my hand, but I wasn’t quick enough. "Don’t encourage him, little mother. Was that - chant your idea?"

"No," I shook my head. " _He_ started it."

Sealskin clad shoulders shrugged. "Just seemed - right," the man concerned dismissed, a little abashed by the look of astonishment his brother gave him. "When you said what you said - I just remembered and - well, I didn’t expect him to _hear_ me. Hey," he considered with sudden wariness. "You don’t think he might be - _upset_ about it, do you?"

The astonished look became one of wry warmth. "Iolaus," Hercules half sighed, half laughed, "some days ..." He snorted softly and shook his head with quiet incredulity. "You help these people affirm their dedication to the power of the sea - and you’re worried Poseidon might be _upset_ by it?" He reached out and wrapped a damp arm around his brother’s shoulders, hugging him with affectionate strength. "You just earned our ticket home, buddy. Probably with sufficient interest to pay Charon all those silver coins you owe him."

" _I_ owe him?" Elfir grinned and jabbed his fist into sea soaked ribs. " _You’re_ the one that never pays for those boat trips!"

The hug became a headlock; they began to wrestle with laughter and mock ferocity and _I_ took a startled step backwards. "Boys!" I found myself protesting. _"Boys!_ "

They froze, both of them turning to stare at me with sudden self-consciousness. I adopted the sternest look I possessed.

"Haven’t you two fought _enough_ today?" I demanded, fixing them both with a disapproving stare. "Ulthanar, your arm is bleeding and you need to get out of those wet clothes before the wind freezes them on your back. And as for you, Otterkin, if you don’t get your weight off that leg, you’ll be limping for a week. Look at you - the _two_ of you - fit to scare a mother off on an early journey. Just because - because you can summon _gods_ and fight off entire hordes of raiders between you - doesn’t mean you can - you can - " There were tears in my eyes and a tremble I could no longer hide in my voice. I reached for them both blindly, putting out old arms to wrap the two of them in a fierce embrace. 

I had thought I had used up all my tears. Wept away all that I had accepting that I would soon lose these two bright souls that I loved so much. But the events of that day had shaken me to the core. The rest of it passed in something akin to a blur. I remember that my sons tried to comfort me. I remember too, that I buried my grief in simple actions, things that came to me without thought or concern. I bathed and bound the wound on Ulthanar’s arm, and I bullied Elfir off his feet and into resting in front of the fire. And then - I think - I cooked. I don’t remember _what_ , although it was probably tender slabs of seal meat, and sweet fritters made with honey and seaweed. For all I _know_ it was seal meat seared in honey and salted fritters. I didn’t taste what passed my lips and my sons devoured what I placed in front of them without complaint. After the meal I sat down at my loom and I wrestled with the wool, working out my feelings with the soothing rhythm of the shuttle and each tightening of the shed. The folk came and went while I worked, men _and_ women creeping to my door and offering up formal words of gratitude. They brought gifts too; knitted blankets, cured furs, carvings of wood and vessels made of fired clay. The offerings piled up, although the heap never grew quite high enough to hide Ulthanar’s embarrassment at their generosity. It was Elfir who took to gifting people back; a blanket offered as a shawl to warm old shoulders on their way back home, a pot filled up with sea coal to help succour a sickly child, a mug of mulled ale to keep out the winter chill - and a cheery _keep the mug_ as it was refilled when the visitor took their leave. He handed out the richness of furs and the softest of hides to the mothers of our children and pressed other gifts into the hands of their fathers and their brothers. As the evening wore on his reasons for folk leaving with more than they’d brought became more and more outrageous - and the laughter he could barely hold back before they left finally echoed through the strange wilderness of mind into which I had retreated. 

_Oh, Elfir._

_Oh, my Otterkin ..._

I had so little time left to share with my family - and I had been wasting it, lost in as dazed a dream as the one in which he had been bound for so long. I put down my shuttle, left my loom, and went to share those last few precious hours.

None of us slept that night.

We talked and we drank dark ale until the dawn came. There was both a sadness and a sense of anticipation that wreathed my sons. _I_ was losing them. _They_ were going home. I watched as first Ulthanar and then his brother shaved off their beards, presenting me with clean shaven faces. The faces of strangers, who had strange names and belonged in some far off land. Hercules. _Iolaus._

They smiled at me when I gathered up the shavings, sharing an indulgent grin between them, but I paid them no mind. I would have little enough to remember them by – and that mingling of golden curls was something tangible I could treasure. The sun was rising behind the hills, flooding the bay with cold light; time was racing away from us, and there was little I could do or say to turn it aside or change what was about to be.

Only _one_ thing - and that was a silence on my lips, a telling I would _not_ make, now matter how strong the temptation. I loved my Otterkin. His destiny lay at his brother’s side. And I would not tear him in two, would not bind him to my world, for all that I had the power to do so.

I had asked for one year.

And in that year I had been given _far_ more than I had ever dreamed of ...

When the sun crested the highest hill, the god came back.

Quietly. He came without thunder or announcing omens, just rose up from the waters of the bay and stood there, waiting. 

"Time to go," Hercules announced. Iolaus nodded, reaching to heft the pack I had wordlessly prepared and handed to him some time in the night. It didn’t hold much - just journey rations, a couple of warm blankets, and two skinfuls of my richest mead - but I knew that anything more would have been a burden and an embarrassment. I walked with them to the top of my stone steps, huddling a little into my shawl.

The wind was cold.

"Goodbye, little mother," Hercules said, holding my shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. "And thank you. For everything."

"Fare well, my Ulthanar," I whispered, clasping his hand and squeezing it softly. "May the winds be sweet and the storms never strong enough to founder you." I pulled him a little closer, adding softly: "Take care of your brother."

"I will," he smiled, squeezing my hand back with gentle pressure before he let go. "I _promise_."

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned, meeting blue eyes filled with the brightest, _sweetest_ look I have ever seen. It held a little sorrow, a warm and gentle smile - and a deep and loving gratitude that no words would ever adequately express. Nor did he try to; the owner of those eyes gathered me up in a fierce hug, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his cheek against mine.

"Be well, little mother," Elfir murmured. There was a catch in his voice and a gruffness to the words that fooled neither of us. "Tell Jurgan he and his brothers have to look after you. I want - a warm fire in the hearth and mug of your sweet mead waiting for me next time I drop by."

_Next time?_

I did not want to let go of him, or relinquish one moment of his warmth before I had to, but the generous confidence in his statement made me pull back and seek his eyes. _He_ knew how the magic of the folk worked. Did he know what he was saying?

"My door will always be open for you," I found myself responding, turning a casual promise into true wreaking. "Both of you," I added, not wanting to bind one without the other. I tugged my amber ring from the finger it had warmed for over thirty years and thrust into his hand, using both of mine to close his fingers over it. "You will find safe haven among the folk, no matter how far you might stray."

"I know," my son smiled. There was the brightness of tears prickling in his eyes. He dipped forward a little hastily and bussed my cheek with his lips; the _other_ cheek. The warmth of both kisses lingered for a long time afterwards. "Gotta go," he announced with bright dissemblence. "Can’t keep Poseidon waiting."

I pushed him away - a mother’s gentle encouragement \- and stepped back, watching as he bounced down the steps to join his brother on the beach. "Ready?" came the question, and Iolaus nodded with tight determination.

"Yeah," he confirmed confidently; there was that same note of gruffness in his voice and I saw how Hercules registered it - warmly, and with a sympathetic smile.

"Okay," he said, and led the way down to the water’s edge with an easy and unhurried stride.

They were both one step away from the sea when they turned and looked back. The whole of the folk were gathered by then, a silent line of them, strung out along the curve of the bay in little clumps like beads strung on a necklace. I saw Iolaus - my Elfir, my _Otterkin_ \- pause to slip my ring onto his finger before lifting his hand in a generous gesture of farewell.

And then they were gone.

* * *

Seven years have passed since that day.

The raiders never returned, although one year there was wreckage and a body washed up on the beach. There is something out in the water, a vast and ponderous something that lurks in the deep channels out beyond the bay. Sometimes - in the summer - I have caught a glimpse of a fin, or a snout or _something_ briefly breaking the surface, then vanish back into the depths, leaving a churning of surf and a heave of waves across otherwise calm water. The seals have been a little fewer since its coming, but not so few as to cause us concern. The folk know that they are guarded and do not begrudge their guardian a little of their own fortune.

Ogan took the deep journey three years back. Jurgan is wordsmith now. His sister Merian came to lodge with me barely a season after my sons’ departure. I have been teaching her all that I know; the healing songs, the words and the rituals. She is the one that gathers herbs on the hillsides now, the one who weaves charms into the narrow strips of cloth that the tablets make. She will make a fine old woman one day. But it won’t be soon. I have a little time left to me yet.

I sit and I work at my loom most days. Once it was Elfir who sat and kept me company at such work. Now there are other eager hands that card my wool and beg stories from my old lips. Young hands. Three of them that call me grandmother. Ilthis, the youngest girl child, who came into the world in the late summer, a gift of the seal hunt and the celebration that followed it. Esher, her sister, older by no more than half a season.

And Alus, Merian’s child, who was born to us after the worst storm of that winter.

Alus Elfirson.

His hair is a tumble of dark copper curls, a rich deep red in which hints of gold glint like hidden promises. His smile is bright and full of wonder and mischief. His laughter resounds through my house, his love is generous enough to embrace mother, grandmother, sisters and _everyone_ – and his eyes are blue.

Deep blue. Like the sea.

He’s growing so fast. Another seven years and he will take his place among the men of the folk, learning how to hunt seal and having to struggle with the heavy nets out in the fishing grounds. But for now he is a child, and we cherish him, his mother and I. We watch him run along the beach and dance through the surf, and it is as if his father never left us. _Otterkin_. Otter’s child. 

The stones named them both well. 

It is high summer now, but the winter is never far away from us. The days will shorten and the nights turn cold - and my grandchildren will creep from their beds to watch as I stoke up the fire and set the jug of mead to stand on the hearth. 

_For your father and your uncle_ , I will say, and gather them up and tell them tales of that never forgotten year.

The year the son of a god walked among us and the folk were blessed with a freedom from fear.

The year that harrowed my heart and healed my soul.

The year I was gifted with a son by the sea ...

* * *

_Disclaimer: No stunt seals were harmed during the course of this tale, but a number of raiders went home with broken noses and bruised egos. Poseidon will not say what he left to guard the folk, but believe me it’s **big**_ **.**


End file.
